


Nice To Meet You Too, Sunshine

by blueberryfallout



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Batman: Arkham (Video Games), Batman: Arkham Knight
Genre: Everything is Beautiful and Nothing Hurts, F/M, jason todd on a magical journey towards healing and redemption, latino!Jason
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-24
Updated: 2016-11-08
Packaged: 2018-08-10 17:56:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7855225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueberryfallout/pseuds/blueberryfallout
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>for my bro mx_carter who's been having a hard time of it lately, I know this won't help much friend but at least you can distract yourself. i feel like this is probably the fifth work dedicated to you and i plan to dedicate many more <3</p>
    </blockquote>





	1. who are you? who am i? where is my helmet?

**Author's Note:**

> for my bro mx_carter who's been having a hard time of it lately, I know this won't help much friend but at least you can distract yourself. i feel like this is probably the fifth work dedicated to you and i plan to dedicate many more <3

After City of Fear, after Scarecrow, he’s nothing. Wondering the streets with his helmet half cracked, looking for the safehouse he never told anyone about, even Slade or Rosie. There’s old uniforms there, old memories that he stored when he first came back to Gotham. 

He’s thinking of Dick, his big brother. Barbara, who got fucked over by Joker just as bad. The new kid. Jason doesn’t have surveillance on the new girls, the dark haired and the blonde. They have no connection to him, no old family or replacement. He knows that the blonde girl “died” like him, this time by Black Mask. Bruce is collecting dead children like he used to collect fancy cars. 

Jason’s been watching the people who used to mean everything to him for weeks. Barbara, unbroken and unbowed, working with her Birds of Prey. The replacement with his stupid fucking staff. Dick is still stupidly beautiful, flipping from rooftop to rooftop. Bruce lives alone and fights alone with only Alfred for company. At first, Jason was viciously glad that Bruce is alone, that everyone he used to love has left him. Jason’s better now; he mostly just feels pity.  
+  
Jason’s in the manor, after, Bruce totally unaware. Which is just like Bruce, to never think about collateral damage or Jason wanting to go to the first place that was home. It would never occur to him that Jason would come home so soon, break in through the window to his old room.

It’s just how he left it, down to the dirty socks on the floor. Of course, Bruce also has a hard time letting go of things. Jason’ll bet that Alfred comes in here once a week to dust, probably grieves fresh each time. Poor old man. 

When Jason hears footsteps he barely has time to get out, dives through the window scraping his face, lands heavily on his left ankle. He’s kind of pissed for more reason than one, layered over the constant rage. Jason had some good stuff in there; books, throwing knives, his guilty teenage porn stash. He figures it’s moot now.

Now he has to decide who to visit first; Dick or Alfred. Maybe he’ll meet the replacement, cripple him a little. He’s sure the whole family will be just thrilled to have him back.   
+  
Jason, standing at Alfred’s door reaching for the knob, has the sudden memory that Alfred had a heart attack, or something, back before even Dick. Maybe a big surprise isn’t the best idea for the old man. So he heads to Dick instead.  
+  
Dick’s grown up best of them, he thinks. Got away from Bruce, kept the hero status and the cape. Well. Metaphorically on the cape. 

Jason watches and waits, perched on a rooftop in Bludhaven looking for the telltale flash of blue stripes. “Hey, big brother.” 

Dick almost, _almost_ , stumbles, before rolling easily to his feet. It’s the clearest sign of surprise he’s gonna give. “Jay?” 

“I don’t go by that anymore.” Jay, the kid who flew high and grinning above the streets, is dead. 

Dick stiffens, the wide plane of his shoulders nearly at his ears. “Hood, then.” 

“Jesus Christ, Dick. I’m not…” He stumbles over his own words, suddenly a baby bird again, first day being a Robin. “It’s just Jason now.”

Dick isn’t facing him, but Jason spent years at someone’s back. He doesn’t need to read faces. Dick’s scared, but he’s happy, too. “So you’re back, little bird?” 

Jason clenches his fist, ignoring the hot flash of anger. _Little bird_. Where the fuck does Dick get off calling him that, when Jason’s got a good couple inches on him? It doesn’t matter, he reminds himself. _Doesn’t matter_. He’s going to get better, he _has_ to. 

“I need a place to stay, Dick.” Not what he was originally planning to say, and not true, but he’s here and Dick is so familiar. Dick is _family_. Jason’s been fueled by anger for too many years. Right now he’s just tired. 

“I know a girl.”

“You know a lot of girls.”

Dick turns, smiling; he was always the pretty one. “This one’s special.”  
+  
After a few more awkward minutes Dick writes him an address, looking grave. “I’m trusting you, Jason. Don’t make me regret it.”

Jason clenches his fist; he’ll never be good enough, always the second-rate Robin. But this angry asshole isn’t him anymore. “I won’t.” Summoning up what’s left of Robin, he lets his voice go soft and honest. “I promise.”

Dick relaxes, salutes, and backflips off the roof. Typical. Jason makes his slow way down the fire escape instead; his ankle still hurts from jumping out the mansion. His bike is still there, up against a dumpster where he left it. He swings a leg over and takes off.  
+  
It takes him a day to find the balls to visit this “special girl” of Dick’s. Jason’s kind of curious what she looks like. Knowing Dick, she’s probably a redhead. 

The apartment at the address Dick gave him is in an average Gotham neighborhood, not rich, not poor. Better than where he grew up, anyway. Kids are playing in the street, but it’s getting dark, so one by one they’re called inside. 

Jason watches from the rooftops, passing his helmet from hand to hand. When everyone is finally gone he jumps from the rooftop, doing a flip in midair. He can remember copying it from Dick, painstakingly flipping from place to place until it was _perfect_. Never good enough for Bruce, though.

Jason shakes the thought away, taking Dick’s paper from his pocket and double-checking, _again_ , that he has the right place. The door opens before he can knock. 

“Jason?” He takes a step back; it’s not some mystery girl, it’s Stephanie Brown. She’s a white girl, an All-American blonde wearing jean shorts and a green tank. There are thick scars across her chest and shoulders, a thin one through her left eyebrow. She was tortured by Black Mask, he remembers, and feels a pang of understanding sympathy. “Hi, I’m Steph,” she says, waving him inside. 

It’s a well-lit, typical college student place, fairy lights everywhere and lots of posters. Looking at her placid, pretty face, he gets the impression that she can be very deceptive. He drops his dufflebag near the door, hearing the thunk of his weapons. They’re the only thing he really needs; he doesn’t have keepsakes and he wears his armor more often than not. 

She leans forward to shake, her hand stark white against his dark brown. Already he feels uncomfortable, biting back the urge to run. What is he doing here, trying to earn his place back after all he’s done? The amount of money he has, what he knows, no one’ll ever find him if he runs. But he knows he’ll end up like Bruce, old and alone and bitter, without even Alfred. A fate worse than standing here hating himself, at least. 

Steph catches his gaze and holds it; her eyes are very blue and a little distant. He wonders if she’s not quite all there. Unsure what to say, Jason goes for the obvious question. “Where do I sleep?” She breaks the eye contact, gesturing with a smile at a couch lumpy with pillows. It’s right in front of the main window, looking down at the street just a few steps below.  
As he watches a woman walks past, scolding her son as she clutches tightly at his hand. “Seems unsafe,” he tells her, tapping lightly at the glass. 

“Bulletproof. The frames are made of titanium. People can’t see in from the ground.”

Reassured, he smooths his hand over the nearest pillow, a crocheted monstrosity covered in little bat symbols. “Not bothering to hide, huh?” he asks, turning to where Steph is slipping flip-flops on. 

“Why should I? This is my home,” she answers, like it’s so simple. Jason has two safehouses just in this _district_. None of them are home. “I’m going for a walk,” she finishes. “Want to come?” 

“It’s 8:30…”

She shrugs, halfway out the door. “It’s a warm night, nice neighborhood. We’ll be okay.” Jason nods, dropping his helmet on the closet pillow and peeling off a few layers of armor before following her out. She turns when they’re halfway out the door, sighing. “No, stop.” 

She tugs the hood away from his face, flips his collar over and pushes his shoulders straight. He makes a mild, affronted noise but doesn’t fight. “What, what’s wrong?” 

“You look like you don’t want anyone to notice you.”

“Yeah…” he drawls, giving her a confused smirk. 

“Well, you’re giving off such a strong ‘don’t look at me’ vibe that everyone’s eyes will be drawn to you.” He nods obediently. He used to be able to fake normal, before all this, but even then he wasn’t very good at it. He once flipped a classmate over his shoulder when she surprised him. 

“Okay, Steph.” She nods and continues walking.

 

The streets are dim, but not dim enough; he can see the devastation he caused, old militia flags tattered in the wind. The guilt comes like a wave. This was his city; look what he’s done to it.

He remembers how empty it was, just the criminals he used to fight as Robin. He’d thought at first that it would feel good, bringing the city that killed him to its knees. But all he felt was that emptiness reflected back in him. 

The people they pass on the street don’t give him a second glance. He’s sure they’d kill him on the spot if they knew. He hunches his shoulders, feeling watched although there’s barely anyone else. Steph is humming to herself, walking loosely. She has a springy step that reminds him of Dick’s. He wouldn’t be surprised if she copied it from him; they all want to be Dick, the favorite son. 

“You’re thinking, like, way too hard,” she announces, not looking at him. They pass a store with boarded up windows, another casualty of the riots he caused. She stops in front of it, leaning casually against the cracked slats. Her eyes flicker over his face and away, never making contact. Jason was friends with a blind girl, once, back before Bruce. It’s kind of like that with Steph, her gaze never quite holding. 

“What?” he asks, leaning next to her, uncomfortable with his back open. 

“We all know what you did. You were an asshole and you hurt a lot of people,” she says, brutally honest. 

He’s reminded of Barbara, staring up at him after he took his mask off. “You used to fight men like Scarecrow. Now you’ve become one,” she’d spat, fierce even while defenseless and surrounded by armed men. The girls in his family never bother with dancing around the truth. 

“But we get it, Jason. We forgive you,” she continues, pushing off the wall and heading back towards her apartment. He ignores the bitter fist of guilt in his chest, knowing it’ll turn to anger like everything does. 

“People like us don’t get forgiveness,” he spits, catching up to her side and falling into step. 

“People like us don’t have the same rules,” she corrects. “We can’t do what we do otherwise.” She turns fast, walking backwards easy as pie. “Do you understand?” 

“Yes, _mom_ ,” he admits, rolling his eyes. Her sudden grin is striking and beautiful, teeth bright against the red of her lips. Jason falters for just a moment, embarrassed when he realizes it. 

“Good boy, Jason.” He blushes and kinda hates himself for it.

 

When they get back to her apartment Steph heads into her room for a few minutes, comes out in her armor with her hair down. “I’m going out on patrol,” she says, tugging her gloves on. 

“Should I come?”

“I don’t think so. Not yet.” Jason’s not angry; his request was half-hearted because even he knows he’s not ready yet. Steph gives him a sunny smile, although her eyes are hidden under the lenses of her mask. Honestly, it’s a little easier without the blank stare he now knows is behind it. Jesus, Bruce fucked them up. “I’ll be back in a few hours. Don’t wait up.”

She takes the stairs to the roof, he thinks, or maybe there’s some secret exit. Knowing this family, that’s more likely. Jason kicks off his shoes, lying back on the couch Steph deemed as his. His helmet flickers quietly at his feet, a constant rotation of images that he finds reassuring. He’s spent a lot of nights with just the helmet for company. Eventually he lets himself fall asleep, curled in a protective ball.   
+  
When Jason wakes up it’s day and Steph’s still not home, but there’s a flower shaped sticky note that reads ‘ _At school. Alfred’s lasagna in fridge. Eat!_ ’ There’s a little scrawled smiley face that he finds weirdly endearing. He should probably be creeped out that she was in and out without his notice, but they’re Bats. It would be weirder if he could catch her. 

When he checks his watch it’s around two, people rushing past on the street and never bothering to look up. That’s what makes it so easy to be a Bat in Gotham; no one ever looks up. 

He helps himself to a plateful of Alfred’s lasagna, triggering memories that are easy to shove aside in the light of day. He kind of wants to go out, maybe restock from one of his safehouses, but the scar on his face draws too much attention.

He showers instead, feeling very domestic as grime and blood slide off his skin. He jacks off out of habit, thinking of Rosie, his hands on the sharp cut of her hips. When he comes he mutters curses in Spanish, his mother’s language and the one he still thinks in. Clean and feeling better than he has in a long time, he leaves the bathroom with a towel round his hips and finds Steph in the living room. 

Her uniform is peeled to the waist, pieces of armor at her feet. She’s wearing a blinding pink sports bra, bruises crawling up her left side and to her neck. The scars underneath don’t rival Jason’s, cause no one’s do, but they’re bad. The rest of the family are scarred, sure, but he and Steph were _tortured_. There’s a small mark on her belly, a C-section scar from the pregnancy they’ll probably never talk about. She’s calmly patching up a thin slice on her shoulder, face impassive.

“I thought you had school?” he asks, knowing she’s aware he’s here. 

“Something came up.” Finished, she slides the rest of her suit off, standing there in her sports bra and boxer briefs. There are cigarette burns on the insides of her thighs and Jason decides there and then that Black Mask is gonna die _screaming_. There’s the familiar ugly anger unfolding in his stomach, fiercely protective. She’s a Bat, so she’s _his_ , cause no one gets to hurt the Bats but him. 

Steph catches the line of his gaze, abruptly folding in on herself. When she talks it’s almost sing-song, making the hairs on the back of his neck rise. “Things happen, and now they’re gone,” she tells him, bending to put her sweatpants on. Her hands shake, so faint most people wouldn’t notice. Jason was trained to notice. 

“Steph.” 

“They’re gone,” she says again, firm. “We should get drunk.” 

It’s blatant change of subject, but he lets it go, more afraid of the void in her than he is willing to push. “Okay.”   
+  
Steph’s got top-shelf whiskey, because she’s a Wayne, sort of, and Waynes get only the best. He’s tired and he thinks about the asylum. He never really slept, just had periods where he went away and came back fuzzy, Harley slapping at his face. 

He waited down there in the dark for _months_ , alone and scared and _suffering_. Bruce didn’t even wait a full year before replacing him. He keeps trying to express what it was like to Steph, filled with too much whiskey and too few barriers.

Eventually she just pats his knee, wearing the blank look that still freaks him out a little. “Jason. I get it. I know.” The rest of the family probably forgets about what happened with Black Mask, even seeing her scars as a stark reminder. She handles it better than him, tucking it away somewhere he can’t reach. 

Everyone thinks she’s normal, back to the Steph Brown from before, but right now he’s looking at her face and there’s nothing moving behind her eyes. She ties up her hair, turning to show him a smooth patch of skin at the back of her head where hair should be. “Sionis cut a chunk out just for starters,” she says conversationally, letting her hair fall around her shoulders again. “He has it framed in his office.” 

“I’m going to kill him,” Jason tells her, drunk enough to be honest. She nods, or at least he thinks she does. 

That decided, Jason peels up his shirt, showing a scar on his lower back. “Joker beat me so bad I had to get a new kidney,” he says, remembering pissing blood for a while.

“From who?” 

“Deathstroke. He just grew a new one, hand to God.” 

“That’s so weird.” Steph is gleeful, the tone of the conversation lighter. 

“Yeah,” Jason agrees, thinking fondly of Deathstroke and even more fondly of Ravager. 

Steph slips off one of her socks, wiggling not five but four purple painted toes. “He cut off one of my toes _and_ broke all my fingers,” she whispers, conspiratorial.

Jason feels a sick lurch in the pit of his stomach but soldiers on, opening his mouth wide. “Sixteen false teeth _and_ a metal plate in my cheek.” 

She laughs finally, leaning towards him with her hands clasped. “That’s _awful_. Oh my God, we shouldn’t be laughing at this.” 

“That’s all we can do, Steph.” 

Picking at the purple bandaid on her knee she nods, agreeable. “Yeah. I know.” She looks up, mischievous, more like the girl he’s sure she was before. “I’m _definitely_ laughing that you died still wearing the green panties.” He snorts and shoves at her shoulder, taking another swig as he watches the sun go down over her shoulders.   
++  
Jason wakes up with a splitting headache and Steph passed out at the kitchen table, fingers curled around the bottle of whiskey. He takes it from her to put away; she mumbles but doesn’t wake. 

She’s still half naked and it’s chilly enough that her skin is goosebumped, so he grabs a blanket from her room and drapes it over her shoulders. Hopefully going into her room isn’t some huge invasion of privacy.

It’s almost four, so he figures she’s not going on patrol tonight. A night off is probably good for her. He pops an Advil, takes a piss, and goes back to sleep.   
++  
Steph’s gone again when he wakes up for good; he gets the feeling this will be a routine. There’s another sticky note, reading, ‘ _Hungover :( In class, but call if you need me_ ’ Underneath is her number. 

Jason texts instead, _hey_ , getting her answer when he’s in the kitchen scrounging for cereal. She uses a lot of emojis, which makes him smile. They make plans for him to pick her up when she gets out of class at 7:30, which leaves him a long day to eat cereal and relax.  
++  
He gets dressed at 7:00 and grapples over to Gotham U, narrowly avoiding a black shadow perched high above on a gargoyle. It slips off into the night without a whisper. Cassandra, the other new girl, the one who doesn’t speak. The other member of the family who’s killed before. From what he sees before she flits off she’s tiny, probably relies more on speed and skill than the brute strength he can bring.

He waves before dropping several stories to the next building, feeling the usual rush of adrenaline that keeps him young. It’s 7:32 by the time he gets to Gotham U, the sun low in the sky. Steph is waiting on the steps, visible by the glint of her blonde hair. There’s someone with her, a stunning Indian girl who chatters excitedly, her voice rising and falling. 

He waits for the girl to leave before tossing a stone at Steph, who doesn’t flinch. “Hey there, kid,” he calls, watching her snort. 

“You’re barely two years older than me, dipshit.” She’s looser than he’s seen her, smiling easily. It’s false; as soon as they turn a corner she’s locked up again, flat but not blank. He thinks there are different levels, and this is baseline Steph. 

“How was school?”

She shrugs, taking her suit out of her bag and pulling it on with practiced ease. “We’re still rebuilding. It got looted when you sacked the city,” she says, matter of fact but clearly not intending to be hurtful. 

“Sorry.”

“We’ll be okay.” She jumps up on the nearest fire escape, climbing fast. He grapples instead, meets her on the roof. She makes a beautiful leap and dive onto the next one, cape fluttering behind her. “Hurry up!” she calls, waving. He grins and chases after.   
+  
They get home sweating, Steph bumping his shoulder as they head down the stairs from her roof. 

“You’ve got good form,” he says, aping Bruce’s rumbling growl. She smiles, pleased, pausing when they step into her living room. He almost runs into her, their armor clicking briefly.

Cassandra is standing there, a black shape against the lights from outside. “Stephanie,” she rasps, voice deeper than Jason would’ve expected.

“Hey, Cass,” Steph answers, flipping the lights on. It really doesn’t make this new Batgirl less creepy. “What’s up?” 

Cassandra nods towards him, and he has no doubt she’s reading everything he’s putting off. “Hood.” She tilts her head like she’s listening to something. “Bad.” Jason’s stung, although clearly she _has_ read everything he’s thinking, especially the worst parts. 

“No, he’s not,” Steph says, calm even though she’s stepping between Cassandra and him. He’s touched that she’d bother. Bruce sure as hell never did.

“No. _No_ ,” Cassandra snaps, shaking her head, frustrated. She makes an annoyed noise before tugging off her mask. Underneath is a pretty Asian girl with a scar through her upper lip and a penetrating stare that reminds him uncomfortably of Bruce. Her hair is cropped close to her head, giving her a streamlined look that Jason is really liking. “Bad…people,” she grits out, clenching her fists. 

“Bad people are coming for Jason?” Steph finishes, but Cassandra shakes her head again. 

“Bad people…make us…do bad things,” she finally says, and Jason doesn’t really know her but he’s touched by the amount of effort that took. He knows her story. He knows the bad things she’s been made to do. 

“Thank you,” he murmurs, watching as she slinks into Steph’s bedroom and doesn’t come out. “Is she…” 

“There’s a secret exit,” Steph says, confirming his suspicion that secret exits run in the family.

“Is she always like that?” he asks, taking his helmet off and leaving it on the kitchen table. Steph shrugs, going into her room and returning in a sweater and purple shorts made out of a fabric that he wants to touch. “Patrol?” 

“In a few hours.” She turns to grab something and he catches sight of a burn, high enough on her thigh to almost be on her ass. Always observant, she says, “It’s from Sionis.” When she looks back she’s still the Steph he knows, still in control. 

She lifts the hem of her shorts higher, showing a skull brand. Jason’s slammed with memories of Joker squealing “Can I keep him?” and then the smell of his flesh burning. By that point he was so hungry it smelled good, once he stopped screaming. Now he carries it with him everywhere, and he touches his face without thinking.

“Sionis did this…third day? I think?” she says, craning her neck to get a good look at it. 

“Did he, uh, ever…” Jason can’t get the words out, knowing he has no right to ask but needing to be sure. 

“No,” she interrupts, turning fully to stand with hands on hips. “He never touched me like that.” Relieved, Jason nods, but she’s not finished. “He filmed everything and sent it to Batman.” 

He’s going to rip Black Mask _apart_ , revel in his blood like he should’ve in Joker’s. “I’m sorry,” he finally says, honest. 

“It’s probably good to talk about.” Jason runs his thumb over the scar on his index finger that’s been there so long he doesn’t even remember getting it. He’s never been much for talking and he’s not going to start now. “Anyway, I’m hungry,” she says, brusquely changing the subject. “Let’s go out.”  
+  
“You need clothes,” she informs him when they step onto the street, empty enough for a warm night. “You’re obvious.” He has to agree; even without the armor, he still sticks out. “And you smell.”

He laughs, but he doesn’t think she notices, attention already on to something else. There’s a food truck festival going on just a few blocks away, winding down but not closed. Jason never got anything like this, Steph scrounging through her purse for a few dollars to pay for quesadillas. He was on the extreme of both ends of the spectrum, either very rich or very poor. Maybe Steph has Bruce’s money behind her but she doesn’t wave it around like him, not even aware. Jason needs to keep reminding himself that he doesn’t hate Batman anymore.

They finish their food on one of the ugly piers that stretch into the bay, legs dangling over the side. Steph’s watching the waves, chewing slow. Jason’s thinking about Kaldur when she stands, offering a hand to help him up, her eyes looking somewhere over his shoulder. “We should get ice cream.” 

It’s a hair too cold for ice cream, but Jason doesn’t argue. They order from a vendor who clearly thinks they’re dating, sending a disapproving glance at Jason’s scars and leather jacket. Steph, in a sweater and shorts with her hair down, looks so wholesome Jason really does almost feel dirty, although he knows the real Steph is behind that, her humor and blankness. 

They walk back in companionable silence, Steph licking vanilla ice cream from the tips of her fingers. They halt for a few minutes to stop an assault, so easy it’s near pathetic. Jason looms over the terrified perp while Steph watches from a distance.

The woman they saved is overwhelmingly grateful, thanking them in Spanish after she gets a look at Jason. She’s a sex worker in heels that make Jason’s calves ache just to look at, unharmed except for finger shaped bruises around her wrists. Her name is Layla, and Jason marks it down in his head for later. People like her aren’t protected by the cops, so he’ll keep an eye out. 

“You’re good with people,” Steph observes as they walk away. 

“Not really.” People are either afraid or they dislike him, he’s found, and tries not to care. 

“The militia was pretty loyal to you,” she says, and Jason thinks of his army, hundreds of them, but they still failed against the Bat because they thought his odds were impossible. Batman wins because nobody believes that anyone would be crazy enough to try the things he does. But Bruce is. Bruce is crazy enough for anything.

Jason shrugs, not wanting to think about them. The militia mostly dispersed after his attack on Gotham, either arrested or paid enough from his leftover accounts that they could disappear. Steph is kind enough to change the subject.   
+++  
Jason hates the scar, hates that he touches it when he’s nervous, an obvious tell. He hates seeing it in the mirror every morning, the first thing anyone sees. Every time it’s like he’s being burned all over again, on his knees before Joker. 

“Oh, you should try makeup,” Steph says over his shoulder, dropping a tube of tattoo concealer in front of him. In a few minutes the scar is gone, and Jason sees…himself, he thinks, for the first time in a while. It isn’t until later that he realizes his foundation is too dark for Steph; she must’ve bought it special.   
+++  
The next week, when Jason is going to meet Steph at school as usual, he lands on a Clock Tower gargoyle. He’s only there a few seconds before he hears Barbara’s voice _right in his ear_ , nearly killing him all over again. 

“Jay.” 

He winces, but he’ll allow it; if anyone deserves the privilege, it’s her. “What are you doing in my helmet?” 

“Hacking’s sort of my thing now. You know. After.” 

He does know; seeing Barbara in a wheelchair was almost worse than the new Robin. Another casualty of Bruce’s war. “Yeah.” 

“You can come in,” she offers, and a hatch opens somewhere overhead. He hurt Barbara most of all, when he took over the city. _Kidnapping_ her, shooting close enough to her head that shrapnel cut her cheek, almost killing her father. The guilt comes as a pit, swallowing him up til it’s hard to breathe. He’ll hate himself forever. 

“Barb. I _can’t_.” He can’t even get off this gargoyle, going over images of her face when his army kicked in her door, tossing her wheelchair aside like trash. He makes a choked noise and jumps to a safe rooftop, rolling to crouch. “I can’t, I-” 

It’s too soon, she’ll still have scrapes from _him_ , from crawling away on cement and gravel. He took away her mobility and she’s forgiven him, making hush noises through the comms. They grew _up_ together and he used her as a _bargaining chip_.

“Jason. You can come back another time. Door’s still open.” He hears the hatch slide shut, then her quiet laugh. “Metaphorically.”

He nods, knowing she can see it in one of the cameras she has around here. He would know about the cameras; he had to disable them to kidnap her. Hating himself, sick and ashamed, Jason retreats to Steph’s apartment.   
++  
“So I guess the school thing was off today?” Steph asks when she comes in the door, books tucked under her arm. There are wisps of blonde curls that she blows off her face as she sets her books down, coming over to Jason where he’s curled in a miserable ball on his bed. 

“M’sorry,” he mutters, knowing his eyes are red-rimmed and obvious. 

“Oracle called.” It was always Barb who kept the family together, the only one of them capable of communication. He shrinks even further, feeling small although he’s 6’3 and broader even than Bruce. 

“I hurt her,” he says, clutching at his helmet. 

“She’s tough. Probably the toughest of all of us.” Steph folds her legs under herself and watches him, patient. “And Alfred sent over clothes for you. He said that a Wayne should never go without.” 

“I’m not a Wayne,” he growls, instinctive. 

“You’re being kind of dramatic,” she points out, calm. She’s wearing flip flips today, and he can see the space where her baby toe should be, the skin knotted. 

“You never have emotions, how would you know?” he snaps, and she frowns. 

“Yes, I do.”

But they’re mostly on the surface, she’s not all there, he thinks, swallowing the words down. “Sorry,” he says instead, regaining control of himself with effort. 

“It’s okay. You had a hard day.”

She’s standing, long legs and tiny jean shorts. The American Dream. Jason eyes up the claw marks above her left knee, right over the purple bandaid. “Catwoman?” 

“Yeah,” she answers, fond. Jason gets it; it’s hard not to like Catwoman, even when she scratches.

“I almost lost an earlobe to her teeth once,” he reminisces. “It was my twelfth birthday.” 

Steph steps away, nodding in agreement. Stretching, she goes up on her toes, muscles in her thighs flexing. “Cass and I are going to a movie tonight. Wanna come?” 

“Yeah,” he says, a little surprised how easy it is with her. If this was anyone else, even Barb, they’d still be talking about his feelings or some shit. Steph just smiles.   
+  
Later, he’s sandwiched between them, watching something with more zombies than sense. One leaps out, slavering, blood dripping down his chin. Bored, Jason looks to Cassandra, who’s watching with rapt attention, chin in hands. She hasn’t moved since they sat down.

He looks to Steph next; she has her feet on the seat in front of her, a far off look on her face as she eats Sno-Cones by the handful. Something explodes on screen and Jason jumps enough that she looks over with a small smile and squeezes his hand once before letting go.

“Scared?” she whispers, leaning in close. Her hair smells like strawberries when it brushes his cheek. 

“Nah,” he whispers back, nose briefly touching the shell of her ear. She makes a disagreeing noise and goes back to the movie. He watches her for a few more moments, the upward tip of her nose, the light from the screen flickering against her skin, before he looks away.   
+  
When they get back to her apartment Steph immediately changes into her suit, slipping on thick pads of armor, brushing her hair out. Jason gets into the sweats that Alfred got, poking at his abs, vaguely worrying he’s losing muscle tone. He hasn’t trained in weeks, not since before the invasion.

“How long will you be out?” When he was Robin, he did it in shifts, six hours a night or whenever there was an emergency. 

“A few hours. It’s just a Tuesday night.” She puts her mask on, the plates of armor folding over her face, and looks up at him through white-out lenses. “Go to sleep.” 

“Yes, ma’am,” he answers, saluting. She sticks her tongue out and heads up the stairs.


	2. if you're having an anxiety attack, and i'm having an anxiety attack, then who's driving the boat!?

Jason’s still awake when she comes back, absorbed in a book. He never let himself read while he was the Knight. Steph comes down the stairs as usual, quiet as a ghost. 

“Hey,” he grunts, realizing how tired he is when he looks up and his head swims. Steph doesn’t speak, heading for the kitchen and the whiskey she keeps there. She drinks straight from the bottle, deep gulps that he can hear from his place on the couch. She gags, shakes her head, and sits at the table. “Steph?”  
He goes to sit across from her, seeing the fine tremors in her hands. “You okay?” he asks, pressing the catches on her mask that he knows will fold it back. Underneath she’s gone; he’s not sure what she sees when she looks at him but he doesn’t like it.

“Black Mask was at the docks tonight.” She rubs hard at her wrists, not seeming to notice. “He caught me for a couple seconds.”

“Steph…”

“He licked my _face_ ,” she hisses, finally breaking but it’s honestly less scary. “He put his hands on me and said I taste even better than he remembers.” 

Jason is so viscerally angry it feels like a living thing, snarling in his chest. He hasn’t been like this since he crawled his way out of Arkham, vowing to kill Bruce. He takes a deep breath through his nose, too loud over Steph’s quiet sobs, then reaches a careful hand across the table to touch hers, relieved when she doesn’t snatch it away. 

“Steph. Hey.” She looks up, sniffling, more present than he’s ever seen her. “Do you want me to kill him?”

There’s a long pause where all he can hear is his heart pounding, knowing that even if she says no he’ll still do it. Finally she nods, fierce; all his favorite girls are warrior women, he’s realized. “Good.” He’ll do for her what she can’t do without crossing a line he really doesn’t want her to cross. She smiles weakly, going blank again but he’s seen what’s behind it. He squeezes her hand once before letting go.   
++  
He sleeps all day, unbothered by Steph getting up and going to class. He leaves before she comes home, not wanting her to have second thoughts if she sees him. 

Sionis has gotten sloppy in his old age; his men are openly patrolling a warehouse, tempting. Jason’s not so out of practice that taking down eleven armed men is hard, especially now that he doesn’t have to worry about killing them. He’s always had a hard time with that; he’s a brawler, and he doesn’t know how to hold back.

He takes down the last guy and puts him on his knees, gun to his head. “I want a word with your boss, Black Mask. Where is he?” he asks, calm and in control. 

“You ain’t gonna kill me. You ain’t gonna kill me!” the thug scoffs, they’re always so sure of themselves when they see the symbol on his chest. He grits his teeth, _hating_ being under Bruce’s mark again and hating even more that that’s Harley’s work talking. “Do I _look_ like Batman to you? Rethink your answer before I fill you up with lead,” Jason growls, crowding in close. His bulk does most of the work. 

He can feel his heart throbbing in his ears, escalating as he gets angrier and doesn’t try to push it down. The thug’s eyes widen. “Downtown! His office! But you ain’t gonna get him! He knows you’re coming, freak!” 

No, he doesn’t. Jason rolls his eyes under the helmet, muttering, “Good,” before he shoots the guy point blank. He thinks of it like taking out the trash, thinks of the evil this guy would’ve continued to do. It’s good. He’s still under control.   
++  
Sionis is hiding out in the busiest part of town, cars blaring four stories below. “Black Mask!” Jason shouts, bursting through the door. He brushes aside henchmen who can barely throw a punch; every blow he lands makes his blood sing. He was _made_ for this. Black Mask puts up a good fight, sending wave after wave of men who are nothing, they’re _nothing_ , all Jason can feel is the incandescent blaze of his rage.

After he’s killed half of Black Mask’s men and maimed the rest, he dangles the bastard out a window. “Do you know what you did to her?” he screams, half out of his mind with anger. Black Mask’s babbling, promising money, women, drugs, his hands scrambling at Jason’s coat. Sionis put those hands on _Steph_ , he took something bright and beautiful and left a wasteland behind. 

Jason doesn’t bother letting him answer, drops him out the window limbs flailing. “Say hi to Joker for me,” he calls after, climbing over the frame and landing on Sionis’ chest, the bones crunching like paper. He’s dead; Jason rips the mask off to make sure. 

Already there are people gathering around, taking pictures. In Gotham, they don’t waste time with shock. This’ll be all over the news tomorrow. Bruce will probably have a heart attack, his most precious rule broken. Whatever. 

Jason grapples back up to Black Mask’s office, finds Steph’s lock of hair; it’s still attached to a chunk of skin and Jason grimaces, holding the frame away from himself, wishing he could’ve hurt Black Mask worse. He leaves through the roof, hearing sirens a few blocks off.  
++  
He goes to a safehouse before heading back to Steph; he’s too angry to be around anyone else right now. Blood slicks his armor, so he takes that into the shower with him, methodically cleaning til the plates gleam and his heartbeat has slowed. His hands will stop shaking as the adrenaline goes down. He changes into sweats before heading back to Steph, armor and helmet hidden in a dufflebag.  
++  
He has time to think about what he’s going to say as he walks back, frame dangling from his fingertips. There’s no point in it, really, and he knows that. Steph will see through him and find what she wants. 

She’s asleep when he comes in; her bedroom door is cracked which he takes as permission. Usually she keeps it shut. She sleeps on her back, head turned so far it looks uncomfortable. Jason thinks she looks like one of the Disney princesses from his mom’s favorite movies, and is immediately annoyed by the thought. People like him are never in them. 

He puts the frame on the nightstand near her head, pulling the blankets further over her shoulders. He’s so much more aware of everything for some reason; the rasp of his calluses against fabric, the shimmering gold of Steph’s hair, her lips parted. It’s probably leftover adrenaline.

The sun will be up soon, so he tears himself away as it breaks over the nearest buildings, giving the whole room a warm glow. Steph wakes up as he’s dropping off, coming out of her room with a blanket around her shoulders. The frame is between her fingers; she looks at it with no expression. 

“He’s dead,” Jason says, abruptly wide awake. 

She gives him a vindictive sliver of a grin that’s more real than anything he’s seen on her face before. “Yeah. Oracle just called.” 

“How’s Batman?” 

She shrugs the blanket off, uncaring where it lands, and goes to the kitchen to make cereal. “He’s furious.” 

“Is he going to…” Jason isn’t sure how to end that sentence. Arrest him? Come over here? 

“He said that he understands your reasons but doesn’t approve.” That is so Bruce, cold as hell and always disappointed, Jason a shame to the family. 

Steph leaves the frame on the table; she won’t look directly at it. Jason doesn’t know what to say. ‘Congrats, he’s dead and it still hurts?’ ‘You’ll still see his face in your nightmares?’ ‘He died screaming and that’s the best I can give you?’

She’s mechanically eating her cereal, staring out the kitchen window. Jason wants to be comforting but he’s never been good with words. Steph’s locked tight with no way in, no cracks for him to dig his fingers. He’s not sure he wants to. Far as he can tell, Steph keeps everything at a distance. Hopefully this won’t cause a breakdown that he’s really not capable of handling. 

She finishes her cereal, pushing the bowl away. “Thank you.” There’s only a vague tremble in her voice. _That’s my girl_ , Jason thinks.

“You’re welcome.” She gives him the barest sliver of a smile, the glint of triumph in her eyes. For now, that’s enough.  
+++  
At the asylum, Jason was hit, over and over, and sure he learned to take a punch as a kid, his dad was fond of it, but this was. This was different. It restructured his whole _face_ ; when he got out of Arkham he didn’t recognize himself. Getting hit doesn’t bother him anymore. 

He takes the punch that goes for his jaw and laughs. “Come on, Steph. I thought this was going to be hard.”

She narrows her eyes, focusing, throws a solid left hook that’s classic Bruce followed by a leg sweep he knows the Replacement uses often. When that fails she flips to her feet, gets her thighs round his neck and throws him halfway across the room. He’s more than a little turned on, hoping she doesn’t know. 

“Jesus, Steph. Where’d you learn that one?” he asks, getting to his feet. His shoulderblades ache where he hit the wall, but of course, he’s had worse. The Joker dislocated his shoulders sixteen times. 

“Batwoman,” she answers, scratching at a scar on her neck that spiderwebs thinly onto her jaw. “She took an interest.” He imagines she would; Batwoman has a thing for pretty blondes. “After the…” Steph clears her throat, “After Black Mask. She said I would be prepared next time.”

“Next time?” 

Steph looks strangely vulnerable, just in her sports bra and shorts, washed out by bright lights. “Sionis caught me cause I was being cocky. I tried to take on thirty guys at once. They took me down easy. I’m just lucky they didn’t. You know.” Rape her, he finishes in his head, stomach churning. “When they brought me to Black Mask I was so sure Batman was coming. So stubborn. I spit in Sionis’ face and that’s when they tied me down and if I was _better_ -”

She’s looking behind him, probably seeing Sionis. “It wasn’t your fault,” he protests, automatic. “We all get caught.” Some worse than others, him and Steph much worse, but it happens. “Dick even has a GPS tracker under his skin.” 

“Next time I’ll be prepared,” she says again, settling into a fighting stance. Jason’s tired, unsettled, thinking about Black Mask’s men and their greedy, grasping hands.

“Can we go eat instead?” he asks, hoping she won’t refuse, throwing herself into her work rather than dwell on the past.

“Yeah, okay.” Small victory achieved, Jason smiles to himself.   
+++  
Steph’s wearing something filmy and probably more expensive than everything he owned before Bruce. It’s purple, because of course, and it screams money through a fucking bullhorn, fitting tight at her waist and making her skin glow. 

She tucks a wayward strand of blond hair behind her ear, asking, “How do I look?”

Like something he doesn’t deserve to touch, Jason thinks. “Rich,” he says aloud, getting a frown.

“Bruce needs us at this event. Oracle says that Two-Face is gonna crash it.” Rich white people bullshit, Jason thinks bitterly, like he did when he was Jason Todd-Wayne, Bruce’s hand heavy on his shoulder. These people are so ostentatious, so smug in their wealth and power as they stand on the backs of everyone below them. The last party, before he died, the steak was served in real gold foil. On the streets the night before that, Jason had watched a ten year old get on her knees for twelve dollars. 

Steph’s watching him, confusion hiding somewhere in her face, if he looks for it. She really is beautiful, an old school movie star with her hair floating about her shoulders, long legs covered so he can’t see the scars. He’s pissed off about the party and pissed off that he wants her. He’s not enough of a person yet to even think about that shit, and to be honest, neither is she. 

“I’ll come with you,” he grunts, impulsive. 

“I guess extra backup would be smart,” she muses. “But you can’t come in the limo with me. You’re still dead.” Doesn’t he know it.

“I hate limos.” 

She shrugs, going to the window nearest the door and looking out with an inscrutable expression. “You hate anything that feels good, Jason.” He’s angry that she’s right as the limo pulls up and she swishes out, a bright spot against the dull gray of concrete. With a wave, she’s gone.   
+  
He fades into a disguise that he’s used before; the Latino waiter, blending into the background. It’s easy to cover the scar, now, hunch his shoulders so he doesn’t impose. He’s lucky it’s only the Replacement and Dick here. If it was Bruce he’d be caught in a second, Bruce’s big hand clamped around his neck. 

Jason spies on Steph from a distance; she’s a pretty girl even in a room full of pretty girls, he thinks objectively. He watches as she tilts her head back, laughing at something Dick says, her fingers tight around Drake’s arm. 

It takes Jason a few minutes to realize they think she’s fine, think she’s normal. There’s nothing of the real Steph here. She’s a gorgeous, glittering thing and they’re all falling for it. He wonders if they’ll ever figure it out, heads over to her after they leave.

“Canapes, miss?” he asks, watching the blankness slot back into place. She doesn’t try to hide around him and he kind of likes that. 

“Thanks.” She pops one in her mouth, chewing slow. 

“You’ve got Dickie-bird and Replacement pretty well fooled,” he says casually, looking for any reaction. She just shrugs, disinterested.

“They expected the same girl to come back,” she says, taking another canape. “So I did.” Someone calls her name so she turns away. They’re standing close enough that the fabric of her dress catches briefly on his fingertips before she walks off.  
+  
Two-Face crashes the party, of course, surrounded by armed thugs, demanding ‘two pieces of jewelry each.’ Jason sees a woman clutch at her pearls, whimpering, feels an unexpected stab of pity. They’re just people, they’re stupid, but he watches a man shield his wife, sees one woman struggle and spit.

He runs to a bathroom, changes fast, leave his outfit in the trash. He hates playing a waiter anyway. Steph is right next to him, a purple streak against the background as he turns to punch some guy in the face. His blood is up, pounding in his ears til it’s swallowed him whole, easy as anything, the throb of his knuckles against flesh. God, he was born for this.

Steph catches his gaze from across the room and grins, fierce and real. Blood flecks her chin, neatly matching the lipstick she’s still wearing. For a moment he’s back to back with Dick, the sizzle of his escrima sticks sparking through the air. Jason’s taller than him, finally; he’ll never outgrow Dick’s shadow but he’s bigger physically.

When they break apart Dick winks, saucy, does a flip that would be impossible for anyone else. Jason breaks a man’s arm in three places and it’s over, Two-Face with his head under the Replacement’s boot, his men groaning. They all exchange victorious grins.  
+  
After Two-Face is handcuffed and carted away by the cops, they head for the roof, him and Steph facing Drake and Dick. Steph’s got a bone shard in her hair that he brushes off, careful so his glove doesn’t catch on the strands. 

Dick watches with his usual level of overbearing brotherly instinct, asking, “Settling in well?” 

“Sure,” he grunts, rolling his eyes where Dick can’t see. The way he talks, you’d think Jason had just gone off to college or something. 

The Replacement is staring at him, Jason can sense it even though the whiteout lenses. He’s a smaller thing than Jason would’ve expected, bird boned and shorter than Steph. 

“What’re you looking at, Replacement?” Jason asks, deliberately aggressive, flashing a smirk that’s gotten him punched in the face more than once. 

“My name is Tim,” he says flatly, body language never changing. Dick’s already moved in front of him, trying to be subtle; it was the one thing he was never good at. 

Jason’s suddenly furious, aching hurt underneath. The _Replacement_ gets Dick’s protection, accepted into the fold like it’s nothing while Jason watches from outside. He gets the uniform, he gets the family, he even has _Wayne_ in his name now. Jason should’ve killed him while he had the chance. 

The thought must be obvious. Drake takes a step back, something small and miserable on his face. That calms Jason down more than anything, more than Dick’s nervousness or knowing Steph’s there. Jesus, the kid can’t be older than eighteen, what the hell is Jason doing? He promised himself he wouldn’t get like this.

Slowly forcing himself calm, he rolls his neck. “Okay. Tim.” He smiles, making nice. It’s not like being friendly will kill him. Probably.   
++  
Because Jason’s life is terrible and forever doomed to suck, the Replacement comes home with them. He soars overhead in that ridiculous glider, each move precise. Like every Robin, he brings something new to the table; not Dick’s grace or Jason’s ferocity, but a kind of single-minded focus that Jason can see even as he hops from rooftop to rooftop. 

“Why is he with us?” Jason hisses to Steph over the comms, ducking under a billboard. The night is warm enough that his jacket feels like too much, too heavy. 

“He’s my best friend,” she says easily. Jason spots the kid doing a perfectly executed flip that was clearly copied from Dick, feels a frustrated flash of understanding. 

After they get home and change they regroup in the living room, Jason sprawled on his couch and ready to fight again. But the Replacement- _Tim_ -comes out and he’s _tiny_ , crossing the line from cute to pretty with big brown eyes. 

He’s a black kid, the first of Bruce’s sons. Jason sizes him up for a second; he knows a lot already, knows that Tim’s too hard on himself, works long hours, has a twitchy, nervous edge to him.

Jason had been so angry, seeing Bruce risk the life of another kid, seeing someone else in his uniform. Almost he wants to be angry now, except Tim is shifting from foot to foot, glancing at Steph, clearly so eager to please it makes Jason _ache_. He’s been there, he’s worshipped Bruce, starved for any kind of attention and ashamed of being starved.

So he smiles, softening his sharp angles and being the better person if it kills him. Again. “Hey.” 

“Hi.”  
‘How’ve you been since I dropped you from a helicopter?’ he wants to ask, remembering the flutter of Tim’s cape, the surprised look on his face. Him and Dickie, both the same. They’ve been working these streets for years but they’re still shocked when someone’s mean to them. But Jason’s not here to be an asshole.

His instinct is to be shitty but he can grow beyond that or something. Barb would have worded it better he’s sure. Jason catches Steph’s eye; she looks politely disinterested, not that that means anything. He settles further into the couch, meanly glad that there are no other chairs in the living room so Tim just has to stand there, awkward, while Steph sits on the couch. 

Facing Tim, Jason kinda feels like he and Steph are Tim’s disapproving parents. The thought makes him smirk, because he’s trying but he doesn’t have to be a saint in his own head. “So, uh. How’re you guys doing?” Outside the cowl, Tim is a little softer, a little less harsh. Well, they all are, actually. Except for Jason himself, he thinks.

“Uh, we only just got back from a fight, _pendejo_ ,” Jason says, knowing he’s being a jerk but sometimes it’s like he can’t help himself.

Tim’s expression changes from placid to stormy in a second, taking a step forward. “Everybody knows what _pendejo_ means, asshole,” he snaps, showing an unexpected strength of backbone. “And I could hear you over the comms back there. You forgot to switch to private.” 

Jason looks to Steph; she’s watching them without expression, her eyes somewhere far off. He can’t find any help in her. “Jeez, I-”

“I get why you hate me, and I’m sorry, but I’m Robin now,” Tim continues, hands fisted at his sides. “You need to stop being such an asshole about it.” 

Jason wants to rise to the bait, desperately; he’s got a gun tucked into his waistband right now, or his fists will do. Tim took the Robin costume, he took Dick’s protection, he took _Bruce_ ; and that’s when Jason stops himself, cause that’s what it’s really about, isn’t it? It’s always about Bruce, with this family. He doles out affection like it’s costing him something and he wonders why his children fight each other for it.

Steph puts a hand on Jason’s bare arm, her skin a few degrees cooler. Not like she’s holding him back; more like she’s holding herself back. He wonders how badly this situation makes her want to run. A fight between her best friend and whatever Jason is to her. 

“I’m sorry,” Jason gets out eventually, a little forced but it’ll do. He’s not here to fight with this kid who, honestly, did nothing wrong. Steph leaves to the kitchen, where he can hear her putting the dishes away, slow. 

“You killed Black Mask,” Tim says after a few seconds, not what Jason expected. He’ll take it though. 

“Yeah.”

“For Steph.” It’s not a question. Jason shrugs one shoulder anyway. For most people, when they say they’d kill for a friend, it’s hyperbole. For Jason, he means it. 

“Sure.” He wonders if this’ll be the thing that gets Tim to snap, to take a swing. It’s been a while since the bruises on his face healed, the ones from Bruce during the attack on the city.

Jason touches the skin near his eye, remembering. “ _Estás enojado, amigo?_ ” he asks. _You angry, friend?_

Tim rolls his eyes. “I speak Spanish, Jason. Stop trying to use it to be mysterious.” 

Jason laughs in spite of himself, entertained by this kid who’s clearly, blisteringly intelligent. “ _What else do you speak?_ ” Jason asks in Mandarin, and then Arabic. 

Tim responds in both, something almost like a smile touching his lips. Steph comes back in with carrots and hummus, the atmosphere much more relaxed, Jason chatting to Tim in Spanish, teasing him about his accent. There’s something like a smile on her face, too.  
+++  
Jason’s flicking through channels, not really paying attention, til he lands on the news and it’s Harley, her awful, lipsticked face and…look, he gets it, okay? He gets that she was brainwashed and hurt too but all he can see when he looks at her is her handing over the gun he first killed with. Joker turned him into this but she _helped_ , he thinks petulantly, stuck staring at the TV.

Harley’s been out on the streets for a while now, causing mayhem. Jason can feel his shoulders tensing up, can hear Harley’s high pitched cackle, getting tenser and tenser until Steph walks in. “Jason?”

He rolls his neck, annoyed with himself cause he’s _better_ now, he’s getting better he has to be. “What?” he snaps, sharper than usual but there’s no reaction from her. Of course. 

“I was just gonna ask what you’re making for dinner.” 

“Arroz y haichuelas,” he answers, flicking to the next channel. Bruce’s face beams back at him, and honestly? Fuck his life.

“Is it spicy?” Steph asks, and Jason resists the urge to roll his eyes. 

“Ugh, no, Steph. It’s not that spicy.” 

“Can we get ice cream after?” It’s unusual enough for her to ask to do something that he looks up, confused. She’s blank faced, except there’s something a little hunched about her, her gaze focused over his head. He rewinds the last few minutes and realizes he was being kind of a dick. He’s not going to apologize, cause that means admitting he was being a dick and then there’ll be a whole big mess of feelings that he doesn’t want to deal with right now, so he smiles instead, stretching his arms over the back of the couch. 

“Yeah, Steph. Of course we can get ice cream. Strawberry or vanilla?” Her posture loosens a little as she takes a step to sit next to him. Her shorts today are made of some thin fabric that moves a lot, riding high on her thigh. Jason gets a glimpse of pink underwear before he clears his throat and forces himself to focus on other things. 

“Black raspberry.” 

He shifts a bit so he can see her face. The corner of her mouth is turned up, which means he’s forgiven. “Cool.” 

“Cool,” she echoes.  
+++  
Jason was brainwashed to hate Batman. He wasn’t brainwashed to hate Bruce, who took him off the streets, snuck him cookies when Alfred said no, Bruce who would shrug off his playboy persona as soon as they stepped in the house. The Bruce who Jason was starting to call Dad in his head before he died. 

He can hate what Batman represented; a constant war, his soldiers left as collateral damage. He can’t hate what Bruce was to him; a home, finally, a family pre-made and ready to love him. 

So maybe he ran into Bruce on the streets a few hours ago, and it’s fucked with his head, who cares? It’s weird to turn a corner and bump into the man who left him to die, pretend not to notice the way he’s limping a little. Old man isn’t just a nickname anymore. The war on crime breaks everyone.

Bruce had dropped the persona for once, nodding at Jason before strolling away. None of that billionaire playboy charm bullshit. It’s not like Bruce is gonna act like they’re even friendly. 

Steph rolls her eyes when he tells her this. “You literally tried to take over the city once, Jason. With fear gas. He never once thought about going after you.” Sighing at his bewildered look, she continues, “Bruce loves you as much as he loves Tim, or Cass, or any of us. Maybe not as much as Dick.” 

Jason nods; everyone loves Dick, it’s not something to be jealous over. “You think?” She’s in the kitchen, leaning over the counter writing a shopping list. Her hair shimmers gold and for a moment he forgets all about Bruce. 

“Of course. I’m the most emotionally stable out of all of us. I know these things.” He snorts; Steph is just as fucked up as he is if not more. He knows she’s aware of this, probably smirking.

“Okay, Steph,” he says, letting it go. She laughs once before the silence in the apartment is broken only by her scribbling.


	3. What Is It That The Machine Wants

“I’m just sayin’, I’m just…y’know,” Tim slurs, delightfully drunk, the fuckin’ lightweight. Jason watches him from over the rim of his glass, sends a glance at Steph. She’s two drinks in, a little softer around the edges, stripped out of everything but the skintight shorts and sports bra she wears under her suit. 

Tim’s taken his armor off; without it, he’s even smaller. Bruce really went all out on the armor with this one, Jason realizes. No surprise there. 

Tim’s leaning heavily against Steph’s shoulder, her hair a bright yellow against his dark skin. Steph raises an eyebrow, putting an arm around Tim’s shoulder as he pushes his face into her neck, affectionate. “Sttttteph. Love you.” Jesus, this kid is adorable. And if he’s thinking that, he must be drunker than he thought. Still, Jason kind of hates himself more for trying to kill him. Even if it's been a few weeks since they first met and things are easier now.

Jason rolls his neck; his shoulders hurt all the time now, leftover damage from a lot of time spent hanging with his arms tied over his head. Best position for Joker to beat him, when he couldn’t curl up. That, or the wheelchair. He spent so much time sitting in that _goddamn_ wheelchair. Jason shifts, shuddering, can nearly feel the barbwire Joker always used around his chest. _Fuck_. He doesn’t want to be doing this right now. 

“Jason?” Steph’s watching him, concern hiding in the blank planes of her face. As she and Tim have gotten drunker, she’s been more herself again, without the faint smile and cheer of Fake Steph. It’s easier, not to see what she was before, not to wonder whether he’s changed that much, too. Probably. 

“What?” he grunts, taking a long drink, grimacing. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t. His fingers are beginning to tingle, a sure sign he’s had too much.

“You still with us, Jason?” Tim’s grinning, loose, almost an entirely different person from the tense Robin he was earlier. Probably because Jason’s stopped wanting to kill him.

“Yeah,” Jason says, rough. “I’m still with you.”  
**  
When Jason comes to, briefly, at around 3 in the morning, Steph is still awake. She’s leaning back on the couch, Tim’s face pressed to her arm, slack-mouthed and drooling, slouched halfway off the seat. His ankle is a few inches from Jason’s face, deceptively delicate. Jason’s seen the damage this kid can do. 

“Steph?” Steph’s looking down at him; he can’t see her face in the halo of the streetlights outside and it’s making him uneasy. Jason spent too much time in Arkham with people who had faces cast in shadow of the spotlight Joker always had on him.

His worst memory is the first time Joker showed up, wearing a Batman costume, the sick bastard. Jason had thought, for one hopeful moment, that Bruce had shown up, that all he’d get out of this was a broken ankle and some bruises, a scolding from Alfred. Then Joker had stepped into the light. Jason hates this, hates that the smallest things bring him back, catch his breath tight in his ribs.

“Steph?” he says again, hearing his voice tremble. Jesus fucking Christ, he’s 6’3 and built like a truck, he shouldn’t be scared of a small girl sitting in the dark. She leans forward, into the light. He examines her face, the dark pits of her eyes, and relaxes. It’s just Steph. 

Tim makes a snuffling noise, toppling over, burying his nose in the curve of Steph’s hip. Jason darts his gaze there, the skin silver in this light, the scars almost hidden. Steph’s just a little softer than the rest of them, round curves where the others, even Cass, have muscle. She got into this later than them, had a kid, and it shows. He wants to…God, he wants to fall into that softness and never come out. 

“Jason.”

He jerks up, still on the edge of sleep, losing track of where his eyes are supposed to be when he usually tries not to let his gaze drop further than her collarbones. She’s beautiful, she’s so _beautiful_. The blank behind her eyes only makes her better, makes her understand. “Mm?” 

She’s resting her hand on Tim’s head, fingers curving around his skull and onto the sharp planes of his cheek. Jason gets to his elbows, head swimming, still drunk. He’s only been out for a half hour. The carpet is rough under his cheek, but he’s slept in worse places. There’s no more words from her, so he slips back into sleep.  
***  
“Who was the first person you ever killed?” Steph asks over coffee, tapping her spoon against her cup. 

Jason sputters and spits, halfway through a returning thought in their continuous argument over best authors. He says Gabriel García Márquez, she says Sharon Creech. He’ll sway her eventually. “What?” 

“You heard me.” Steph’s expression never changes, but he catches the edge of reprimand in her voice.

“I don’t. Uh.” He clears his throat, hunching into his seat. Everything is too small for him now, even the coffee cup he cradles between his fingers. “Why do you want to know?” 

She’s looking behind him, at the people walking by outside the window. Gotham City, always busy. “Bruce wants to know,” she tells him, not bothering to lie. He appreciates that, ignoring the hot curl of anger in his gut. Of course Bruce wants to know, the nosy bastard. Just wants to brood over Jason’s fall and what he probably considers betrayal. If Jason didn’t kill, even with what he did to Gotham, Bruce would’ve taken him back. He tells himself he doesn’t want that.

“And if I don’t tell you?” he snaps, standing, looming over her. His empty cup tumbles to the floor. Usually he doesn’t use his size against her, doesn’t want to. “Have you been telling Bruce everything, talking behind my back?” 

Steph runs her eyes up and down his body, unimpressed. “You’re being irrational.” The barista is staring; he sits back down, sweeping the cup from the ground and tossing it over his shoulder, knowing it’ll land in the trash. “And I haven’t been telling Bruce anything,” she says, something angry flashing across her face. “That’s the only thing he’s asked me.”

“Sure,” he scoffs, leaning back in his seat, glaring at her. He doesn’t like being angry with Steph, but this is _Bruce_ , the man controls everyone. He’ll bet she runs back to tattle to him just like all the others, hoping for a scrap of affection, and that nastiness is Joker talking. Doesn’t matter. Jason bares his teeth, getting a returning look from Steph, emotion bleeding into her expression as she gets angrier. 

“You act like you’re the only person he’s let down,” she hisses, hands in fists on the table. “At least he wanted you. I was never even let into the _Manor_. I was always just some stupid girl from the Narrows, the second-rate daughter of a second-rate villain. I never even expected Bruce to come when Black Mask got me, I didn’t have hope, I just lay there and he _hurt me_ and Bruce did _nothing_. I’m still not good enou-” 

She cuts herself off, folding back in on herself as Jason watches in stunned silence. The skin high on her cheeks is flushed, her hands white-knuckled. He wonders how she hides that feeling, when he can’t. How long it’s been since she showed this much emotion. He’s around her all the time now, she can’t fool him like she does the rest of the family. “I haven’t told Bruce anything,” she repeats, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Blockbuster and Catman,” he says after a few seconds, rubbing his thumb over the old scar on his index finger. When Steph looks up her gaze is sharp, seeing right through him. “The first people I killed. I don’t. Um. I don’t know which one was first.” Joker dressed them up as Batman and brought them to him. He was drugged up to the gills by Harley, confused, almost relieved when she pushed the gun into his hands and told him to shoot. At least it would be over, at least Batman would go away and maybe they’d stop hurting him. Wishful thinking.

Fuck, he hates this, all this _sharing_. People say that opening up is as painful as pulling nails, but Jason has had his nails pulled out before, so he would know the feeling. That was worse, but this is pretty bad, too. He doesn’t want to remember the pain, being on his knees before Joker. Steph deserves this, though, she deserves the parts of him he’s able to share. “It’s fuzzy,” he mumbles. “You can tell Bruce. First time, I didn’t want to.”

He holds her gaze for a long moment, searching for pity, finding only understanding. “Thank you for telling me,” she says, very softly. He nods once before she’s starting a new conversation, something lighter that doesn’t make his stomach churn. He’s grateful.  
***  
“Jason!” He can hear Steph through the water of his shower, as he’s halfway through rinsing his hair. 

“What?” he hollers back, cocking his head. 

“Get out here!” 

“I’m showering!” 

“Get out here!” she yells again, this time her voice holding the edge of command. He groans aloud, turning the shower off before wrapping a towel around his hips. If Steph wants to order him around, she can deal with his naked chest. Although he kind of wishes the towel was bigger, or he was smaller. “Jason!”

“Jesus, Steph, what?” he grumbles, walking into the living room. She’s in her costume, standing in the middle of the room with her hands on her hips. She’s a little bossy when she’s in uniform. He kind of likes it. There’s a slight roundness to her eyes when she gets a look at him, an intake of breath he can hear from here.  
Must be a reaction to all his scars. Jason slicks his wet hair back with a hand, pulling his muscles tight, watching her eyes track the movement. What is up with her today, she never watches him for this long. “What?” he repeats, and she makes a small movement that would be a jerk to attention on most people.

“Uh. I got cut on patrol.” 

“Need me to stitch you up?” She nods, dumb like she usually isn’t. “Okay, then. Why don’t you go sit at the kitchen table,” he says to her, enunciating clearly like she’s stupid. Worry blooms in his chest; maybe she got hurt worse than he thought, maybe she’s got blood loss making her slow. He watches as she makes her way to the kitchen table, taking off the plates of armor, peeling her suit to the waist.  
There’s a slice in her forehead, bleeding a lot like head wounds always do, staining her hair red. “What happened?” he asks as he grabs the first aid kit, hitching the towel higher on his hips. She makes a small noise, but she’s expressionless when he turns around. 

“Fucking ninjas,” is all she says. He makes an agreeing hum as he folds her hood back; it’s always been unclear to him why so many criminals rely on swords and jumping when there are guns to use. She’s already taken the mask she wears under the hood off, leaving it on the table. It’s a flat black space like Cass wears, with eyeholes where Cass has none. He likes her Spoiler costume better than what he’s seen of the Batgirl one. Or the one as Robin. He’s glad she’s Spoiler again, out from under Bruce’s thumb. 

Underneath the hood her eyes are still clear; he leans over her to check the back of her head, running his thumbs gently over her skull to feel for more blood or bumps. Her hair is soft as it runs through his fingers. Her gaze is roughly at eye level with his abs, inches away from his skin. Now is not the time to be distracted, he reminds himself. 

“Seems pretty shallow. Take deep breaths.” Steph’s eyes slip closed as his fingers touch her skin, pinching the cut together, threading the needle through it. Alfred used to do this for him, would sit him down in the Batcave and force him to stay still, would bring him chocolate milk after to soothe his sweet tooth. Alfred held him together, even when Bruce was at his worst.

Steph lets out a breath when he’s finally done, tying the thread off. He’s not expecting her to lean into his touch, but he smooths his thumb over her forehead anyway, smearing some of the blood. They can both do with some kindness. It’s funny; in this lighting he could almost mistake the look on her face for affection. “Thanks, Jason.”

He takes a step away, pushing his hair away from his face again. Wet, it gets in his eyes and it’s _annoying_. 

“It’s nothing.” She smiles anyway, a little distant but hey. He’ll take what he can get. He thinks, lately, that she’s starting to come back, after being untethered for so long. If it’s because of him, he’s honored. “Can I finish my shower now?” he teases, grinning. He doesn’t wait for an answer, spins on his heel and heads for the bathroom. Steph huffs a laugh behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i just love jason todd so much guys. so much. i mean i love the entire bat family even damian but man. jason.


	4. a pretty boy with a big mouth

After a few weeks where he’s on his best behavior, barely even grumbling, Steph lets him out on patrol. Lets him, he thinks, like a dog. She promised not to follow him, not to interfere, but he’s already had to slip out from under Dick’s watch and narrowly avoid Tim’s. He has no doubt that Barb’s cameras are following him through the city. Running like this, over rooftops he knows like the back of his hand, he could almost pretend he’s Robin again, the kid who had plans for a different costume in the future, a Jaybird. 

It prods at him like an ache, he’s not _trusted_. Well. He shouldn’t expect to be. Still, when he catches a black shadow following him smoothly through the night, he thinks for a moment about shooting it. Just a warning shot, it’d barely graze her arm. Steph would kill him, though.

“Are you here to babysit me?” he snaps, running high on adrenaline and old memories. He knows that’s Joker speaking, the nastiness isn’t him, not really. Cass tilts her head, crouched easily on the gate at the edge of the roof they’re on. He rolls his shoulders, puffing himself up, ready to fight. There’s no way he can take her, though, doesn’t matter the training he has.

“You’re scared,” she says, seeing right through him. He stiffens. It’s unnerving, watching the black space where her face should be. This Batgirl is _creepy_. “You belong.” He wonders if it’s just him being crazy, or if her words are coming easier than the last time he saw her. She peels her mask up to her nose, giving him a sliver of a smile. “Welcome.”

Just like that, all his worries are eased; that he doesn’t belong here anymore, doesn’t _fit_ in Gotham, that the family won’t be able to take him back. Jesus, Cass could make millions as a therapist. He knows she can read what he’s thinking, but he grunts a thanks anyway, stepping backward and off the roof, away from her eyes. He doesn’t want her knowing everything.  
***  
“Fuck, please, please, I don’t _know_ anything,” the man tied to a chair in front of Jason sobs, cradling his newly broken fingers to his chest, blood dripping from his jaw where Jason took two teeth just for starters.

“Where are they?” Jason asks again, smiling pleasantly inside the helmet. 

“I don’t _know_ ,” the man sobs. Alonso Carboni, age 32, a small time hood with big aspirations in the human trafficking business. So far he has three counts of rape under his belt. There aren’t going to be any more.

“Where are the girls, Alonso? You could work with me, we could be pals,” Jason croons, tapping his blackjack against his palm. So far Alonso’s ribs are only cracked. That could change. 

He didn’t tell Steph what he came here to do, cause it would upset her. The Bat family will beat up a criminal, dangle them off a building, but they stop at torture. Jason doesn’t stop at anything. He rests his boot between Alonso’s leg, inches away from some very personal areas. His eyes widen. “Please…” 

“I can hurt you until you tell me, or we can make this easier on ourselves,” Jason coaxes, pressing his foot down. “I’ll even let you go afterwards.” He should kill Alonso, scum like this doesn’t deserve to live, but he promised Steph.

Alonso lets out a long breath, wheezing a little. He’ll be fine. “They’ll kill me.” 

“I’ll kill you, too,” Jason promises, not sure if he means it. He remembers friends taken off the streets, girls who never came back, and steels himself. He means it. “I am willing and able to hurt you for hours beforehand, Alonso. Tell me so you can stop wasting my time.” He pushes his boot down more for emphasis. 

“Okay! Okay. They’re in Kingston, 86th and Third. Red brick.” Alonso lets his head hang, sniffling like the pathetic bitch he is. “The girls are in the basement.”

Jason beams, lowering his boot. “See, Alonso? I knew we could be friends.” Alonso’s smile is watery with relief, his eyes widening in the seconds before Jason knocks him out.

He spins, gun out, when he hears a sharp intake of breath behind him. It’s just Dick, of _course_ it’s just Dick, it’s always going to be the most beloved son of the superhero community who sees him at his worst.

Dick’s escrima sticks are clasped lightly in each hand; he’s tense but not combat ready. “I heard on the police scanners that there was screaming here.” His eyes won’t leave Alonso’s swollen face, the blood dripping onto his chest. There’s fear and concern in his eyes. Jesus, sometimes Jason forgets that Dick doesn’t have the same training he does, that Dick didn’t learn the ugly stuff. 

“What, he’s not dead,” Jason snaps, annoyed. Dick’s Disney prince face is sad, big blue eyes watching him. It’s unfair to be that pretty, it really is.

The slow curl of guilt fills his stomach, which is _stupid_ , he’s not supposed to kill people and he _didn’t_. Torture isn’t death. This guy isn’t even permanently damaged, for fuck’s sake. “You’re. Uh. Pretty good at torturing people,” Dick says after a few more moments of silence. 

“Well, I always did learn best from experience,” Jason says bitterly. Dick’s face is so expressive when he’s Nightwing; the corners of his mouth turning down with grief, shoulders slumping like it’s physically weighing on him. Jason bites his lip, wanting to take the words back. What is _wrong_ with him? Why does he have to hurt everyone? Dick’s never been anything but the best guy Jason knows, the brightest. He doesn’t deserve Jason’s sharp edges. 

“Jay…” Dick catches himself, throwing a wary glance Jason’s way. “I mean, Jason.” Jason allows the slip, tilting his head to show he’s listening. “Does it still hurt?”

Of course it fucking hurts, he wants to yell. His shoulders ache constantly, his jaw will never close right again, he can’t sit certain ways or his back aches. The J on his cheek is _always there_. But Dick won’t get it, Dick’s one of the good ones in the family, him and Tim and Cass and Barb. Jason’s not gonna drag him down to his level. “Nah,” he answers instead, slipping his knife back into its sheath. “I don’t feel anything.”  
+++  
Black Bat and Red Hood are perched on a rooftop overlooking Grand Avenue; it’s a Thursday night, chilly, the summer blending into fall. Nothing’s going to happen. 

Cass is crosslegged on her gargoyle, hands resting loosely on her knees. Jason dangles his legs over the side next to her, heels thunking against brick. Neither of them like to talk much, or Cass can’t, really, so it’s quiet. 

He catches a hint of a sound, familiar, the hair on his arms prickling. Cass tilts her head, tensing as the sound comes closer. It’s high pitched, cackling, _it’s the Joker. He’s come back_. Cass is saying something Jason can’t hear over the roaring in his ears as he scrambles backwards, already turning his cheek to take the worst of the blow that was always coming. 

Cass leaps, pinning him down, but his heart is pounding and he rips her hands off, shoving her away, his suit too small and the only protection he has right now. Cass rolls easily to her feet, kicking him so hard in the chest that he feels his heart stutter, breath leaving in a huff.

“Stand down!” she orders, eerily reminiscent of Bruce. Jason goes still, taking in deep, heaving breaths through his air filters. “Not Joker.” She sweeps her hand out to the opposite building, where Joker’s grinning face is plastered on one of the screens.  
It’s just a news program remembering the years since his death. Jason almost had a panic attack over fucking _CNN_. He tears his gaze from Vicki Vale’s serious face, why is he _like_ this? Scared, weak, he’s the broken Robin that Joker always said he was. “Hood.” 

Jason looks up at Cass’s black mask, her head inclined towards him from where she’s standing. “Sorry.” She shakes her head, kneeling. “I’m not…I’m sorry. I’m not good enough. He ruined me.” Cass folds her legs, facing him, the cape draping over her form and turning her into something bigger than she is. 

“I don’t…Hm.” Cass pauses, looking for the word. “When I was small.” Despite his fear, chest still heaving, Jason makes an encouraging noise, waiting for her to speak. “Bones…broken.” She mimes a bone being snapped with her fists; Jason winces. “Many times. Agony.” She holds her hands out in front of her, examining the fingers like she’s seeing where everything was broken, every hit she took.  
“But they healed. Healed different, but…” She looks up at Jason; he knows she could be talking about him or herself or Steph or any one of them, really. “Still good. Still work.” 

He fakes a huge smile, like he doesn’t see what she’s saying underneath. Sure, Jason’s healing, but like Cass said; bones heal, too. Only they’re never quite the same. Or they heal wrong, he thinks darkly. “Okay.” 

“Stop brooding,” she scolds. “Like Bruce.” He catches amusement in the set of her shoulders and laughs in spite of himself, taking the hand she offers to pull himself up. She tugs so hard he stumbles. Her and Tim, tiny but strong. No wonder they get along so well.

“Alright, B,” he says, feeling a pang of nostalgia. “Let’s get back to work.”  
+++  
After about two shots and a lot of Steph’s prompting, Jason goes back to Wayne Manor. Of course, he does it in the dead of night while Bruce is on patrol, but it’s a step. The usual traps and alarms are off. Steph told them he was coming, then. 

Alfred is awake; Jason sometimes wondered, as a kid, whether Alfred ever slept. He’s in the kitchen, painstakingly shining the silverware. Jason leans in the doorway and watches him for a bit, feeling the prick of tears in the back of his throat. It’s been a while. “Hey, old man.”

Alfred’s too British to flinch, turning stiffly in his chair to face Jason. “Hello.”

“Hi.” Jason rubs his thumb over the scar on his index finger, without guns or helmet to fiddle with. He came here unarmored on Steph’s urging, and he’s grateful for it now as Alfred surges to his feet, giving a handshake that turns into a hug. 

“Master Jason.” His voice shakes. Jason nods, hugs him back, feeling the delicate bones of an old man. 

“Miss me?” he asks, trying and failing to keep the mocking tone from his voice. 

Alfred steps back, unruffled, face settling in familiar, stern lines. “Of course. We all did.” Jason opens his mouth, about to disagree. Alfred stops him with a look. “Do not argue with me. I’m an old man. Who knows how much time I have left for senseless bickering?”

Jason snorts a laugh. “You’ve already outlived me, Al.” 

He immediately regrets that joke when Alfred stiffens, pulling his shoulders back. “I can only wish I hadn’t, Master Jason.”

“Fuck, I’m sorry.” Jason stares at his feet, searching for words. The last time he saw Alfred was the night he went after Joker, at dinner. Lasagna, he knows. He remembers cause he threw it up later after the third crowbar hit to the stomach. He can’t remember what his last words to Alfred were, but he’s willing to bet Alfred does.  
At that dinner Jason was a ball of nerves, knowing he was going out to kill Joker, ignoring everything Bruce ever taught him. “I didn’t mean. Um. I’m sorry.”

Alfred clasps him on the shoulder, eyes softening. “You have nothing to be sorry for.” Well, that’s the first he’s heard of that.

"Yeah, well,” he says weakly, catching the edge of pity in Alfred’s face, enough to scrape at his sore points. He’s _fine_ , he’s not the weak, broken Robin anymore. He won’t let himself be. “I have to go,” Jason says, abrupt.

“Of course, sir.” Alfred steps away, impassive, shaking his hand once. “Come back any time.” 

“Yeah. Uh. I will.” He offers a smile that’s shaky around the edges before ducking out, near running across the manor grounds to reach his bike.

Everything he sees is familiar and strange all at once, giving a dissonance that catches his breath in his chest. It’s been years, he doesn’t belong here anymore, or he’s back at the asylum and Harley’s about to shock him awake. He’s going to come back in a ball, in a room splattered with his own blood, smelling so bad that he doesn’t even notice it anymore and it’s going to _hurt_.

Choking on short breaths, he pulls over to have a panic attack on the side of the road, sitting with his back against his bike and his head between his knees. The Batmobile blows past a few minutes later, because of fucking course it does, the rumble of the engine Jason would fall asleep to after patrol. Bruce never sees him.  
+++  
“If it ain’t my favorite Batbaby!” Jason whips around, gun out. He’s been stalking alleys on Bleake Island, looking for some of Falcone’s men, who’ve scattered like rats after Black Bat interrupted their gun swap. Most likely they’re long gone, but he’ll put in the effort. Harley’s standing there, close enough that the barrel of his gun bumps against the upward curve of her nose. She grins, eyes crossing. “Oh no! And I thought we were friends.”

Swallowing the hot, aching urge to put a bullet through her babydoll face, he holsters his gun, spitting, “Fuck off, Harley.” She just laughs, pigtails bouncing. That was always the worst part, the _joy_ she takes in her work. She’s smart, smarter than most, able to twist people around her fingers and giggle about it. Only stupid thing about her is her obsession with Joker. Speaking of, “Batman already killed Joker. Go away before I find out what else I can take from you.” 

Something raw boils behind her face as she scowls, gripping her hammer. “One more word, Hood, and I’ll…” 

“Careful,” he warns, tapping his fingers over the gun at his hip. “I’m a good shot. You would know.” 

He takes ugly pleasure when she recoils, ducking her head. “Look, I didn’t come here to fight.” 

“That’s new.”

“I gotta tell you something.” He waits, rubbing his thumb over the scar on his index finger. “You know Professor Pyg?” 

Wrinkling his nose behind the helmet, Jason nods. “Yeah.”

“People tell me things, y’know? I’m a good listener.” She smiles nervously, bravado gone, and Jason is curious in spite of himself. “And you’re. Uh. You hang around. Bats is a little harder to find. So is the little Robin.” 

“Don’t you fucking touch him,” Jason growls, muscling into her space. Harley’s already tried for Tim once, Jason’ll be damned if he lets her do it again. 

Her blue eyes pop wide, then narrow. “I wasn’t gonna. Now listen, cause I gotta tell you something.” 

He forces his shoulders to loosen, inclining his head to watch her. “Fine. What?” 

“I know you don’t work like the Bats, not anymore. You kill people who gotta die, right?”

“Yeah, sure, Harley. Just tell me about Pyg.”

She frowns, looking down, hands twisting. Her nails are chipped red and black, bitten down to the quick. When Joker died, everything about Harley expanded for a while, like her crazy was held back by his. She got her own gang and her own costume and she was vicious. She shrunk down again though, after Jason tried taking over the city, when her last chance at Joker was gone. She’s better off. “Pyg’s got a buncha kids in the old amusement park off Miagani. House of Mirrors.”

“And?”

“And y’know what he does to people! They’re kids, Hood.”

“ _I_ was a kid,” he snarls, touching the catch that takes his helmet off; not like it matters, he’s got a domino on underneath. “I was fifteen. It didn’t matter to you back then. Or have you forgotten?” 

Harley bites her bottom lip, looking like the little girl her persona apes, eyes skittering over the J on his cheek. “Yeah. I mean, no. I ain’t gonna forget any of that.”

He moves away from her, not liking the honest emotion he sees in her face. “Yeah. Me either. I’ll get the kids, but stay the fuck away from me.” He puts his helmet back on, the panels clicking into place, and heads for his bike. 

“I’m sorry,” she blurts out as he swings a leg over it. Not a sentence he ever expected to hear. Not a sentence he gives a damn about. Harley lost her chance to be sorry the first time she drugged him til he was drooling, twisted him til he didn’t know in from out. Jason doesn’t have to forgive everyone. He doesn’t bother responding as he speeds away.  
+++  
“You should come with me,” Steph says thoughtfully, pinning a wayward curl into place. He eyes the creamy curve of her neck where it dips into her shoulder, the scars hidden by skillfully applied makeup.

It’s a Wayne gala and everyone in the family has been ordered to show up. Well. Almost everyone. Steph’s dress today is a rich shade of blue, her eyes nearly too bright against it. It dips low in the front, almost to her belly, held up by prayer more than structure, he thinks.

“What are you talking about?” he grunts, trying to focus more on his book than her. Dante’s _Inferno_ should be able to hold his complete attention, it usually does, but his eyes keep straying back to Steph, the pink pout of her lips, the fabric of the dress tight at her hips, flowing out to the floor. 

“You should come to the party with me,” she says, like that’s obvious and feasible. 

He scoffs, bookmarking his page, placing the book aside. “Yeah, sounds like a great idea. ‘Dead Wayne kid found alive, now a mass murderer. More at six.’ That’ll go over well.”

The eye roll he receives in the mirror makes him grin. “You won’t be recognized. No one remembers you.” That stings, a little, but he knows she didn’t mean it to. “And your face has changed.” 

“So has my desire to suffer through shitty parties.” 

“Fine. Forget I said anything.” There’s maybe, _possibly_ an edge of hurt in her voice. “Limo’s here. See you in a few hours.” 

She sweeps out with a glitter of fabric, heels clicking. Jason groans.  
+  
Forty-five minutes later, Jason has hit two men’s clothing stores and spent a good ten minutes in the mirror fixing his hair. The scar’s hidden, he smells like oaky, expensive cologne, and he’s crashed Bruce’s party easy as anything. Doing good so far. Doing real good. 

Jason wipes his sweaty palms on his trousers and slips through the broad double doors that he used to swing on, chasing Dick around the house; he passes the alcove where he used to do homework, staring off at the Manor grounds when he got distracted. It hurts, but he’s had worse. 

The aching feeling in his chest doesn’t compare to Joker’s foot on it, steadily compressing, letting up just as his vision faded, getting him a breath in, not fast enough before the air was forced from his lungs again. Two broken ribs that time. He shakes the thought away, one of hundreds and they _don’t matter_.

He heads further into the mansion, past servants who have replaced the ones he used to know, Marta and Joyce and Bailey. There are at least two secret exits he could reach from here, but he walks towards the party instead, tugging uncomfortably at his collar. There’s gotta be a hundred people in here, laughing, decadent, cream of the fucking crop. Jason grits his teeth, searching for the rest of the family. 

Dick is in the middle of a knot of people, center of attention, as usual. He tips his head back, laughing, eye catching. Natural. Dick’s always been the best at both sides of his identities; he’s kind and charming and fun no matter who he is.

Cass, on the other hand, is a shadow in gold at the edges of the party, her eyes lined heavily with black, staring down anyone who tries to approach her. Probably doesn’t realize she’s doing it. Tim hovers somewhere nearby, talking animatedly with a group of investors who nod along, enthralled. Fuckin’ genius, where does Bruce find these kids.

Speaking of, Bruce is nowhere to be seen: he’s probably out patrolling, obsessive as always, leaving with a model or two who’ll give him an alibi.

Barb is here, though, wheeling her way towards Dick, who takes her hand once she’s close enough, smiling down at her bright like the sun, kissing her palm almost absently before he dives back into the conversation. Barb’s face is flushed and pleased, her fingers twining with his.

Jason keeps scanning, searching for Steph. Her blonde hair is easy enough to see, his eyes used to finding her shape, knowing her movements. She’s talking to an older man with a mustache, his face a little patronizing, still kind enough that Jason doesn’t bristle. He slips up behind her instead, tapping gently at her bare shoulder, stepping back before he can be tempted to linger.

She turns, already smiling the bright Fake-Steph smile he hates, letting it drop a bit and turn real when she realizes it’s him. Not much of a change, but he’s learned how to read her now. “I saw you across the hall. Mark me down as stunned,” he gushes, cheesy, catching the older man watching them with indulgent amusement before he steps away. “May I have this dance?” Jason asks, extending a hand. 

“You’re a cliché,” she tells him, but that doesn’t stop her from taking his hand, a light pressure that he curls his fingers around, tugging her in a little closer. 

“What can I say? You inspire the poet in me,” he says, still playing, leaning a bit to speak with her; he’s taller than everyone else in the room.

She just rolls her eyes as he sweeps her across the dancefloor, one hand in hers, the other low on her hip where it’s bare, feeling the silk of her skin and the muscle underneath it. He dips her, just a little, finds his gaze trapped on the small dip between her collarbones. There’s some sort of glitter there; it makes her skin look as soft as it feels. He wants to kiss it, tears his gaze away before this can become something more. He doesn’t get to have this right now.

“I’m surprised you’re here,” she admits as they twirl past Tim, now wrapped in the arms of a woman who’s slightly taller than him, her smile victorious. Tim is a catch. “You barely had any time to get ready.”

He shrugs, daring to let his hand slip lower, curve around her hip, fingers close to dipping beneath the fabric on the small of her back. “I know. Do I clean up well?” he asks, grinning, knowing he looks good.

Her eyes slide over where the suit fits at the shoulders, to his jaw and over his mouth. Her lips twist up. “You’ll do.” He laughs and spins her.  
+++  
Jason has a whole five days where he doesn’t have nightmares, doesn’t hear Joker laughing in the dark corners. It’s. He doesn’t know what it is, whether it’s Steph’s help or his own healing or just time passing, scabbing over the wounds. Maybe all three.

Either way, he spends a day in civilian clothes, going out just for the hell of it while Steph’s at school. He’s finally able to go out into his city without the fist of guilt to his gut. Gotham will rebuild, he’s not near enough to break her. 

The old diner on Hurley is still there, the same three waitresses who put his food down and smile with tired kindness. When he was little, when things got bad, they’d slip him leftovers behind the place. He leaves a huge tip. 

After, he wanders, ducks into stores that he used to steal from, desperate, deodorant and underwear and tampons for his mom. He touches the folded up wad of bills in his pocket just for reassurance and immediately feels stupid. 

There’s a pleasant ten minutes he spends talking with one store owner, a burly guy named Stan who recently had twins; the man has strong views about the Batman presence in the city. He heads back home once Stan’s finished talking, loping along Gotham’s streets not bothering to take the roofs. 

By the time he gets back Steph is home, waiting for him, her legs crossed. She’s wearing jean shorts over tights today, one of his leather jackets. It looks good on her, the sleeves a hair too long. 

“Hey.” 

“Hey. Where were you?”

“Out,” he answers, taking his own jacket off, draping it over a chair.

“Out?” There’s a sliver of worry in her voice; she pulls her legs towards her chest, which is cute. He likes watching as she loosens out, comes back slowly. This arrangement is good for both of them, he realizes. He brings her back, forces her to stay inside herself, and she stops him from spiraling, falling back into the Knight’s mindset. 

“Wanted some fresh air.”

He grins, reassuring, and she gives him a sliver of a smile back, relaxing into the couch. “Oh. What’s for dinner?”

“Chicken.”  
“Cool.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don't have much to say just that i love them??? so much????


	5. Request Your Free Guide

Jason waits for Steph outside her school, perched on the steps in front of the student center. For once the day is nice, sun shining, the leaves on the trees changing as summer dips into fall. Gotham’s never prettier than when she’s dying, he thinks morbidly.

There are people walking by swathed in scarves, cupping coffee and grinning. Crime always took a dip when the weather got colder, and Bruce would let him start wearing thermals again, sometimes letting him hide in the cape when it snowed, his fingers hooked in the back of the belt, surrounded by the weird chemical smell of their specialized armor.

He shakes that thought away as a pretty girl walks past, her hair shining red-gold in the sun, clutching a fistful of sunflowers. She checks him out as she goes by, not bothering to be subtle, and he winks, willing enough to play along. She laughs, waves, and heads into the building as Steph steps out. Immediately his attention is on her; somehow, other girls just don’t compare and his tongue is thick in his mouth. “Hey.” 

“Hey.” She gives him a small smile, tugging on the ends of his scarf, a woolen monstrosity that Alfred made and sent over. It has pineapples on it, the symbol of welcome. Alfred is never subtle.  
A couple months ago, Steph would never get this close, this familiar. He can see the pale freckles on the bridge of her nose, the darker strands in her blonde hair, and smiles down at the crown of her head. Her eyes are focused somewhere behind him, never quite touching down. Lately, she’s been better, making eye contact, staying in touch. Not always, though. Probably never always. “This scarf is hideous,” she tells him; there’s a small upward curve to the corner of her mouth that he wants to kiss, those kinds of thoughts never far away nowadays.

“ _You’re_ hideous,” he tells her, dislodging her hands, hitching the scarf up over his face. 

“Nah,” she returns, supremely confident. The sun makes her blue eyes striking, bringing out the greens inside it, giving her skin a glow that’s almost reflective.

“Nah,” he agrees. Never hideous. 

+++

He’s not sure when the night took such a turn, but anger is boiling under his skin, Joker’s voice never quite gone, letting him know he can’t be good enough. “I’m _fine_ ,” he snarls at Steph for the fourth time, feeling himself loom over her, drawing back with effort. 

“You have cracked ribs, Jason,” she responds, blank as usual, unreadable and infuriating behind the lenses of her mask. “You can’t patrol tonight. Bruce said so.”

“Oh, _Bruce_. God forbid we not listen to _Bruce_. Why the hell would he care anyway?”

Steph’s head tilts a centimeter to the side, the only sign of confusion she’ll give. “We need to be safe.” 

“He doesn’t give a damn whether any of us are safe. We’re just tools to him no matter how much he says he loves us!” Jason bites back other words from Joker; I wasn’t good enough, Bruce wants us all dead, the Batman trains his child soldiers and moves on from them.

Steph makes an annoyed noise, refusing to rise to the bait, answering, “You know that’s not true.” He takes a deep breath to respond, stops halfway to cough and wince at the pressure on his ribs. 

The smug noise she makes has his hackles rising even as he curls over, taking careful breaths. There’s nothing more frustrating than Steph not responding, tucking fully inside herself completely untouchable. “He doesn’t care about you, Steph. He left you to die like trash,” he hisses, taking it too far, knowing he did when she sucks in a surprised breath. 

There’s a red flush to her cheeks now that he’d find appealing under any other circumstances; her fingers twitch. “Get out.” 

“Wait, I’m-” 

“I said get out. I don’t want to see you right now,” she says, her voice trembling into anger at last. It doesn’t feel as good to get a reaction as he thought it would. He grabs his helmet from its spot on the couch as he leaves, the door slamming behind him with finality.

+

Shivery fear trickles down his spine; if he doesn’t have Steph, who’s left? She was his second chance, one he chased off like he does everything else good in his life. He fits the helmet on, the seal hissing, symbols flicking to life in a glow as it fits comfortably to his face. He’s the only one in the family who wears a helmet. 

When Joker caught him, the second blow was to the face, protected only by the domino mask, his jaw shattering on impact. Soon as Jason escaped the asylum, he designed the helmet. Gotham’s quiet around him, or as quiet as she knows how, settling into the night. He’s fucked up, he knows it, and Steph won’t give him another chance. He doesn’t deserve one. 

The closest safehouse from his Knight days is 20 blocks away, and his grapnel gun is back at Steph’s. The walk will give him time to think, to figure out where to head next, he guesses. He’s fairly sure he won the argument; it doesn’t feel like a victory.

+

At twelve in the morning he ducks back inside Steph’s; she should be in class around now, he’s familiar with her schedule. The room is slanted with warm sunlight, her shoes kicked off near the door, next to the extra pair of boots he left behind. His spot on the couch still has a blanket draped over it, tangled around the bat symbol pillow. 

His fists clench; he doesn’t belong here anymore and he needs to remember that. Stupid, unwanted, damaged, Joker whispers in the back of his head, quietly gleeful. He heard that Bruce had the Joker in his head at one point, too, the clown more in control there than Jason’s is. He wonders if Bruce’s Joker says the same things as his does. Probably not. The stuff that used to set Bruce off rarely bothered him, and vice versa. 

He’s just grabbed his toothbrush from their bathroom, hating that he keeps thinking of things in terms of ‘they’, gathers up his clothes from the laundry piles they share. Steph helped him pick them out, smiling as he held thrift store t-shirts up to his chest and grimaced, examined the long lines of his legs in jeans she chose. 

Jason’s never been good at fashion; he’s nowhere near as bad as Dick, because no one is, but his choice for fashion when he was young was “it’s free and it’s clothing” and when he was older, Alfred picked his clothes. Well. At least he’s never had a mullet. 

He’s elbow deep in a pile of clothes, searching for his boxers amid a flurry of frilly underwear that he’s trying not to notice, when he hears “Jason?” 

He jumps, hitting his head on the counter over the laundry basket and swearing. Steph’s standing in the doorway, watching him with a shadow of concern. More than he deserves from her. She’s wearing his leather jacket, he notices, over leggings and a shirt with a cat on it.  
“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, finally reaching his boxers and holding them to his chest. There’s another t-shirt behind him that he turns to grab, saying, “Just let me get my stuff and I’ll be gone.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m moving out.”

“No!” Her sudden outburst surprises him; he looks over his shoulder at her. “I don’t want you to leave.” 

The weight in his stomach that he’s had for hours dissolves instantly into gratitude. Steph’s too good for him. “Uh, okay.” He turns fully around, holding his hands up. “I was just asking.”

Something warms in his chest when she relaxes, relief clear behind her eyes. He’s getting better at reading her. “Good. Don’t ask again.” Jason lets his clothes drop back into the basket, rubbing his thumb over the scar on his index finger. “What are you nervous about?” she asks, perceptive as always. 

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that about. Uh. About Bruce. Sometimes it’s just…” He trails off, not knowing how to explain that Joker’s still there, banging his white hands against walls Jason’s worked so hard to keep up, laughing with that wide red maw. Usually he barely notices, and he doesn’t want Steph to think he’s crazy. Crazier.

Her gaze lands on him and holds, entirely present. “I get it. It wasn’t okay for you to say, but I forgive you. And.” This time it’s her turn to get awkward, her eyes sliding away, down his chest to his hands. He feels heat in his face and isn’t entirely sure why. “Fighting doesn’t mean I hate you.” She takes a step forward, lightly touching the side of his arm, the skin there goosebumping under her fingers. “This is your home, too.”

The same words that Bruce said when he first moved into the Manor, and Jason gets the same feeling; like he’s falling, but he’s falling like he does when he shoots the grapnel off, a rush of adrenaline. “Okay.” 

She gives him her usual slice of a smile before withdrawing, moving back but not so far he can’t feel the warmth of her, smell her vanilla perfume. “C’mon, let’s get this laundry done. Alfred would be ashamed.” He grins and picks up the basket, relieved.

+++

It’s been one of those days, the bad kind. Joker’s still far off in Jason’s head, but Steph is far off in hers, distracted, barely answering, her eyes never connecting. She’s been on the couch for the past half hour scrolling through her phone, never moving. He’s not sure she’s aware that he’s even in the room as he settles next to her, deliberately taking up space, being as distracting as possible.

“Hey, Steph. What’s up?” Grunting is the only response he gets, so he curls his fingers gently around her bare ankle, trying to ground her. He’s been learning, he thinks, looking up stuff online about trauma and recovery. It’s helping him, too.  
Steph shifts but doesn’t pull away, glancing at him from under long lashes. She always wears a bit too much eyeliner, but he kinda likes it. Reminds him of the girls in his old neighborhood. Her skin is soft against his, though he tries not to think about it. “So I thought later, we could head out, maybe go to a club?”

This finally gets a reaction from her; she leans into his side, a warm weight. “You hate dancing.” 

“You don’t, though.” And he doesn’t mind watching her dance, not at all, especially when she doesn’t know she’s doing it, swaying in the kitchen listening to Billie Holiday, bopping along on patrol if people nearby are playing music, her hips a tempting shimmy. 

He just wants to pull her back into her head, hoping the overload of sensation that clubs have will force her in. The two second eye contact he gets feels like a victory before she nods, sighing like _she’s_ doing him a favor. “Okay. But I’m making you wear booty shorts.” He would, for her. By the smug look on her face, she knows it. 

“Nah, you won’t. Cause you know my ass is better than yours.” 

He takes the shove off the couch with easy grace, rolling to his feet and reveling in the laughter on her face. “Only cause it’s so fat, Jay.” He hesitates, but the nickname doesn’t sting like it used to, and it’s _Steph_. He’ll allow things from her that he doesn’t from most people. 

“Yeah, yeah. C’mon, Steph. Let’s get you dressed up.” 

+++

He thinks, sometimes (dramatically) that if he loved Stephanie anymore he would die of it. They’re at Burger King, having a cheat day from the strict healthy diet Bruce imposes on the whole family. Well. The diet they’re supposed to follow.

Steph is leaning over the back of her seat, calling food orders to Tim, who nods seriously and orders six Big Macs. She’s wearing one of their crowns proudly on her head, and he’s not sure what it is about today, but he just _wants_. 

Steph’s wearing black leggings, heavy steel toed boots, a Gotham Knights sweatshirt that belongs to him and one of Alfred’s thick woolen scarves. Today has been a good one for her; she’s very animated, excited to hang out with Tim and eat her weight in fast food.

Her cheeks are flushed, and she settles in her seat again to face him, folding her hands over each other. “After this, we’re patrolling together and Tim said he’d bring Superboy along.”

“Superboy?” Jason was out of the game for _one year_ and he misses, like…five new heroes. 

“Yeah. He’s Superman’s clone and he’s _gorgeous_.”

Jason, having been watching Tim try to handle three trays for the last couple seconds, focuses his full attention on her, feeling an uncomfortable coil of jealousy unfurl in his stomach. “Gorgeous?” 

“Oh, yeah. Tall, dark hair, blue eyes. The whole package.” _I’m_ the whole package, he thinks, surprised how petulant the thoughts are. He’s never thought of Steph in the context of other guys, though of course, she’s beautiful. Guys must go crazy over her. One got her pregnant. He grumbles something angry and incoherent, watching confusion trickle into her expression. “Huh?” 

“He sounds just _peachy_.” 

“I mean. I guess?” 

“Bet he’s not that cool,” Jason mutters, glaring at the marbled surface of the table. 

“Are you…” Steph pauses; he looks up at her and her lips are pursed, laughter so clear in her face that his mouth instinctively curls up.

“What?” 

“Are you jealous?” she asks, smirking. “Of Superboy?”

“ _No_.” She reaches across the table to briefly touch his hand, his skin lighting up at the feel of her.

“Superboy’s dating Tim.” 

Tim, settling next to her across the table, nods absently. “Five months next week.”

Jason’s whole face feels like it’s on fire; he keeps his eyes firmly on the table. “Oh. Well. Uh, that’s cool then.” Steph just smirks.

+++

Jason smiles jovially, tapping his baton against his hand. He’s started carrying them now; trying not to kill as much means getting creative, means shots to the knee and different weapons. He kind of likes the challenge. Maybe he forgot, after Arkham, that there’s more than one way to fight. Hurting someone til they can’t get up works just as well to stop them. He would know. 

“Please don’t hit me again,” Phil Kalvin, age 42, beat his ten year old son to death, begs. 

“Is that what your son said?” Jason asks, digging the toe of his boot further into Phil’s fingers. “Did he beg you to stop, too?” 

Phil whimpers through ruined lips, drooling blood onto the floor, the fingers of his other hand scrabbling uselessly. “Please…didn’t mean to…” Didn’t mean to, but he did. Jason heard the same thing a thousand times from his own father, as Jason cradled a broken arm or put ice on a black eye. 

“You’re a waste of space, Phil. Unfortunately for you, I don’t kill anymore.” He raises his baton, bringing it down sharply on the bridge of Phil’s nose, which shatters. “Instead, I’m gonna hurt you really, really bad.”

+++

“My mom liked Disney princesses,” Jason says, eying Steph’s Halloween costume. She’s Sleeping Beauty to Cass’s Maleficent and Barb’s Ariel, all of them going to the Halloween Gala at the Manor. Jason, of course, isn’t invited. He’s going anyway, sneaking in once the party is in full sway, dressed as a zombie. He thinks it’s hilarious. 

Steph looks over her shoulder at him, pinning up disobedient blonde curls, her fake eyelashes fluttering. He’s not sure how he feels about them; when he first saw them on the bathroom counter, he thought they were spiders and freaked a little. “Which ones?”

Jason focuses on the grey powder he’s rubbing into his skin, making dark circles around his eyes. “Cinderella. Belle. Snow White. All the white princesses.” There weren’t any others for his mom to like when she was a kid. “We used to watch them together when I stayed home sick from school.” 

His mom, never entirely there for as long as he can remember, would drift in and out of the room, bringing chicken soup if she was feeling particularly motherly, or if she could think of it. They would curl up together on the couch, sharing the ratty blanket his abuela made for him; not that Jason ever met her. His mom could’ve been lying, or confused.  
Jason would get to put his head on his mom’s shoulder and nap, listening to her murmur Spanish lullabies. The memories are valuable enough that he feels uncomfortable sharing them with even Steph, who’s watching him with a rare spark of interest. “That sounds nice.” More than nice, they were the best parts of his childhood, until Bruce. The things he tried to hang onto while Joker beat everything else out of him. 

“I guess.” He looks down at his hands, slightly too big, the palms square, fingers long and crooked. They look like his dad’s, he realizes, down to the scars on his knuckles, and he’s not sure how to feel about that. It’s just genetics, really. Genetics and beating the shit out of other people. The only real similarity between him and his dad is height, and that neither of them ever finished high school. 

“You should meet my mom sometime.” Jason glances up, startled; he forgot that Steph has a living parent. None of the rest of them do, besides Cass, and hers doesn’t really count. “You’d like her.” 

Steph is looking at the ground, ostensibly fixing the hem of her dress. He eyes the curve of her waist, her narrow shoulders left bare. He wonders what Crystal Brown thinks of the change in her daughter, if Steph hides from her, too. “Sure, yeah.” 

In the mirror, Steph’s mouth turns up at one corner. “She wasn’t always the best when I was a kid, but she tried. It got easier when my dad died.”  
Jason nods, understanding. It was easier for his mom when his dad wasn’t there, too. But it was different for him than it was for Steph. His mom was better than his dad, but she still hit him, still locked him in closets and left him for days without food. He doesn’t regret what happened to them.  
There’s a swish of taffeta as Steph moves towards him, cupping his chin in one hand and leaning in. His eyes flutter closed on instinct as she wipes a smear of black off his cheek with her thumb, stepping back to examine him critically. “There we go.”

“Good?” he asks, his fingers brushing the fabric of her dress, callouses catching. 

“Perfect.” 

+

Jason doesn’t get more than ten steps into the Halloween Gala before there’s a heavy hand clamping down on his shoulder, squeezing the bone there. He yelps, applying a nerve strike to the wrist that has the man snatching his hand back.

Jason spins, looking into Bruce’s wide blue eyes. “Jason?”

Jason spreads his arms wide, grinning. “Back from the dead, B. You like?” He’s expecting a snapped answer, Bruce kicking him out of the party, warning him away from the rest of the family. He spots Steph halfway across the room, in deep conversation with Tim, who’s Snow White. Belatedly, Jason realizes that Bruce is Prince Charming. Of course. 

Bruce just sighs instead, the same one he’d make when Jason was at his most ridiculous, trying to get a rise out of him. There’s fondness in his face, and amusement. It takes Jason aback enough that the next, challenging words die in his throat, hands dropping to his side. “I thought you were a party crasher,” Bruce says, enough of playboy Bruce Wayne in his eyes for Jason to play along. “Sorry.”

“I _am_ a party crasher, B,” Jason points out. “I don’t belong here.” They sway to the side as a couple brushes past, the two men linking arms. 

It’s the first time Jason’s been this close to Bruce in a while, at least since that time they bumped into each other on the street. He’s surprised that there’s no anger, no hate, just a kind of dull fear. Makes sense, he figures. Joker started out the brainwashing by making him scared of Batman. The baseline must be what’s left, what he still has to break down.

Bruce narrows his eyes, Batman flashing across his face, barely noticeable. “You do belong here, Jason.” 

“I…what?” he says dumbly, idly tracking Steph’s movements across the room, unable, as always, to keep his eyes off her.

Bruce shrugs uncomfortably, never able to handle emotions beyond vengeance and Bruce Wayne’s thin veneer of joviality. “You’re important to everyone in the family.”  
_Even you?_ Jason thinks to himself, surprised by the hope he feels. Bruce’s opinion isn’t supposed to matter to him anymore.  
“Um. Okay.”  
With that bit of awkwardness over with, Bruce’s attention moves on, to Vicki Vale who’s wearing a sparkling yellow dress. Long after he’s left, Jason can still feel Bruce’s hand on his shoulder.

+++

They’re watching TV Halloween night, some thing about ghosts that Steph chose, slowly paced and vaguely ominous. He’s pretty engrossed in it, still aware of Steph right next to him in one of his sweatshirts and long socks, warm and close.

He leans into her, just a bit, lets his hand brush the outside of her thigh. He’s been thinking, lately, just. Thinking about her a lot. About how good they’re both doing now. Joker’s laughter quieter in his head, Steph’s eyes alive. They’re never going to be perfect but they are better than they used to be. 

Steph’s smallest finger brushes over his, linking them. When he looks over, she’s staring at the screen, blank faced, but her hand flips, taking his. There’s a slow, agonizing ten minutes where her fingers close til their hands are fully entwined, Steph’s warm in his, and Jason _died_ when he was fifteen, he doesn’t know how to do any of this.  
He never had handholding in the dark, or movie dates, or anything normal. He fucked around after the asylum; it never meant anything. Nothing did. 

Steph’s thumb is lightly stroking over the top of his hand, driving him crazy. “Steph?” 

She turns her head, giving him a blank look. He can’t read her, not right now, his heart pulsing hard in his ears. “Yeah?”

He gives a meaningful glance down at their joined hands, squeezing once. “What, uh, what’re you doing there?” 

Instead of answering, Steph moves, lying sideways on her back along the couch, moving him. He goes willingly, lets her press him down on his front so he’s between her legs, head on her stomach, arms round her waist. Her heart can’t lie, pounding under his ears, over the soft noises of the rest of her body. Soft, like he wanted, letting himself sink into her, eyes slitting. 

She curves a palm over the side of his head, scratching gently through his hair; he makes a low sound in his throat. “Is this okay?” she asks, worry threading almost invisible in her voice. “I thought…” 

“You were right,” he mumbles into the fabric of her shirt. “Whatever you thought, you were right.” 

The hum she gives rings of satisfaction, Steph throwing her other arm over his shoulder. “Good.” Her hand strokes up and down his back in the same pattern as the fingers in his hair, soothing. He hasn’t had soothing in a while, maybe not ever, not like this. He turns his head towards the TV and tries to focus on it, constantly aware of her body underneath his.

+

They lay like that until the movie’s over, til Jason’s half-asleep, blinking slowly when Steph jostles him a little. “Jason.” He looks up at her; it’s not a flattering angle, usually, but it’s Steph. He can’t help but find her beautiful. God, he’s gone soft for her, all his sharp angles sanded down.

“Mm?” She doesn’t say anything, just stares down at him, slipping her fingers under the collar of his shirt, warm against his skin. He takes a chance, moving to hover over her, one hand gripping the headrest, the other curling around the back of her neck. He dips his head, brushing their lips together, careful; if he goes too far, he loses Steph, and he can’t do that.

There’s a brief moment before her mouth opens under his, letting his tongue slip in to taste her; it’s the chocolate candies she’s been snacking on, sweet. When he draws back to grin, her pupils are blown, nails digging into his shoulders like she doesn’t want him to go too far away. There’s no blankness now, their gazes holding, Steph leaning in to snag another kiss. 

“It’s cold,” she says thickly, humming when Jason brushes his nose against her jaw, nips at her ear. 

“Not really,” he says, wondering whether he should get a blanket, turn up the heater. Steph is hot under him; he slips a hand under her shirt to check further, taking a good hold on the curve of her hip. Wouldn’t do to lose his grip.

“It’s cold,” she repeats, amusement in her voice. He barely even has to listen for it. “We should conserve warmth.” He finally understands when he glances up to see her smirk, having been too focused on burying his face in the small dip between her collarbones. 

He can’t believe Steph is this cheesy, except that he very much can, hints of the old Stephanie Brown peeking through as he gets to know her. “Jesus Christ, Steph.” Jason rolls his eyes, but he’s laughing.  
She nudges him off her, to his feet, where he can see that she’s flushed all the way down to her chest, tank top pushed up to her ribs, shorts pushed so high on her legs that he can see the hollow where thigh meets hip, where women are always the softest. Her mouth is swollen red, eyes dark and locked on him. He wants to devour her, and lifts her easily into his arms to place her gently on her feet. “Y’know, it really is cold,” he answers back, bumping her shoulder. 

They head together into her room, Steph sprawling herself over the covers, legs spread; she probably has no idea what she does to him. He’ll try to help her figure it out, he thinks, moving to kneel over her and kiss again, grab at her, taking satisfaction in every handful. He bets, that with time, she’ll get the picture.

+

Later on, when they’re both almost asleep, Steph taking patrol off for the night and Jason deciding not to go out, he turns from where she’s curled around his back to face her, sliding his arm round her waist. She settles her hands under her chin and blinks at him, unspeaking, only just visible in the light from under the door, making her skin silvery.  
He can’t believe he gets this, he thinks, getting soppy about it. Can’t believe he has someone like Steph, who understands. “So, I’ve been thinking.” She nods once, nestling a little closer. He would not have expected Steph to be someone who craves touch, which has taught him not to make assumptions. “I want to stay here,” he says solemnly, not expecting her to snort a laugh. 

She smiles at his offended face, more present than she would’ve been when he first arrived. “Of course you’re staying here. Where else would you go? The Manor? _Dick?_ You’d be at each other’s throats in days.” He smiles when she squeezes his hands, finishing, “And I want you here. You belong here.” That finished, she leans up to kiss his chin, and goes to sleep.

+

The next morning he wakes up same time as usual, only instead of the sun in his eyes it’s dim, no chatter faintly audible from the street outside. It comes back to him when Steph shifts in her sleep, throwing an arm round his waist, leg worming in between his. 

She mumbles something incoherent, and he rolls to look at her, gently dislodging her limbs. Steph’s mouth parts when she sleeps, lax, and her hair is all over the place. Here, in the dim light, he can’t see the scars or the void of her eyes, and she looks like any normal girl. Though, he wouldn’t want her if she was. 

It’s still early, light barely filtering from under the crack under her door. The room smells of sleep, lulling him back down; he moves Steph back into his arms, head tucked under his chin, and falls asleep. 

+++

“Barb.” She doesn’t flinch at the sound of his voice; she probably knew he was coming from the moment he left home. Bolstered up by Steph, thinking about what they did the night before, he managed to make his way here even as guilt churns in his stomach. The panel leading to the main part of her lair had slid aside easily, letting him slide inside to land gently behind her. 

She turns her chair around to face him, expressionless. She’s changed since they were kids, flying over Gotham’s rooftops, laughing. There’s a different kind of strength in her face now, a confidence in herself that wasn’t there before he went into the asylum. 

Barb’s even more beautiful than he remembers, and he remembers her as being pretty damn beautiful. What he wants to do right now is fall to his knees and grovel for her forgiveness, swear that he’s changed, he’ll do anything for her. What he does instead is remove his helmet, peel the domino mask off, and sit on the floor across from her. 

She watches him for another couple seconds, as he rubs his thumb against his index finger, nervous. If Barbara has changed her mind against forgiving him, if he’s lost her for good, what can he do then? He has no right to change her mind. “Jay.”

He allows the nickname; for Steph and her, his two favorite girls, he doesn’t mind. He gives her his Robin grin, wide and cheery. “Hiya, Barb.”

All he gets in return is an eyeroll, so familiar it almost hurts. “So you finally made it over. Steph’s been giving me updates.” Of course she has. In this case, he doesn’t mind. 

“And what do these updates say? Anything good?” 

Barb has never let him get away with any bullshit, kind of like the big sister she is to the rest of the family. “Mostly good. You’re still killing.”

He bristles, ready to get out of here no matter how guilty he feels. “Only if I have to.” Only if they really, really deserve it.

Barb smiles, unexpected. “I’m not gonna pull a Bruce, Jay. Relax.”

He smiles back on instinct, real this time, then gets serious. “I’m sorry, Barb. I’ll do anything you want.” Instead of answering she turns around, typing rapidly at her computer in lines of code that he can’t understand.

“When you…died,” she begins, as Jason gets to his feet and moves to stand behind her. “When you died, everything fell apart. Dick left, Bruce was insane, and then Joker shot me.” Her voice doesn’t shake; he puts a hand on her shoulder anyway, squeezing. “We were getting better eventually, I guess. But Bruce…I hadn’t seen him smile in months. Tim didn’t help, _none_ of us helped.” 

“I’m sorry,” he says again, and she shakes her head. 

“You don’t get it. You being back, that’s enough. That’s all I wanted.” His phone vibrates; it’s Steph, ready to be meet him at her school. He’s about to text her back, that he can’t, when Barb says, “Go get her. We can talk more later.” 

She’s smiling, face turned towards him. Jason doesn’t bother asking how she knows about the text, just kisses her briefly on the forehead and grapples out. 

++

The very next night, Jason gets taken out on patrol. He went up against an unknown factor without backup, he’s such an _idiot_. What was supposed to be one guy guarding a weapons shipment turns out to be fifty guys and a metahuman, a big man with shockwaves. Jason doesn’t have a chance. 

He was doing alright, beat at least half of them, til he took a bullet to the shoulder, then his helmet was cracked and he had to tear it off, earning a few good hits to the head that have made everything blurry, his reflexes slowed. 

He’s started killing at this point; he only promised Steph that he’d try not to kill, he didn’t promise to stop entirely, not if a situation is life or death. Right now, he’s figuring it’s death. It’s not like anyone will come for him; he learned not to expect help after the fifth month with Joker. His breath sounds wrong, raspy and wet, a rib or two broken. He’s familiar with the feeling. Besides his head, he’s exhausted, no longer fighting like Bruce taught, tight and controlled, but straight up brawling. 

He can’t move his left arm anymore, letting it dangle loosely as he fires his last bullet and starts striking blindly with his knife, even as he’s forced to his knees. If he’s going out for real this time, he’s going out fighting. All he can think is that now he’s fucked up, right after he gets Steph, right after he starts fixing things. He hopes she won’t fold back in on herself after this. After all, he’s been dead before and everyone moved on. 

Jason feels someone take his chin, tilt it up; it’s the metahuman. It’s always the metahuman, half of them so swelled up with pride over their powers that they insist on taking control in every situation. Jason squints through his one good eye, the other one swelled closed, runs his tongue over the split in his lip, focusing on the metallic taste of blood. Something to keep him here. The metahuman has a nasty gash in the side of his head, courtesy of one of Jason’s bullets, so at least he has that going for him.

“You shouldn’t’ve come here, boy,” the metahuman sneers, his voice surprisingly high pitched. Jason foggily wonders when people will stop calling him boy. Never, if he dies today. He yanks his head out of the metahuman’s grip, biting down hard on his fingers, and is rewarded with a backhand to the face. 

“Joker hit harder than that,” he slurs, not that they can understand him. The metahuman just grins before tipping his head back, opening his mouth. Jason closes his eyes against the shockwaves he knows are coming, turning his brain into mush, thinks about Steph. 

He cracks his eyes open when the expected, brief pain doesn’t come. The men are all turned away from him, staring at Batman, who’s silhouetted in the rafters above them. Jason’s so out of it he’s not even sure if it’s real, thinking that he’s back at the asylum, waiting for the cowl to come off and reveal Joker’s rictus of a grin. The warehouse spins as he falls to the side, onto his bad shoulder. Doesn’t hurt that much.

He watches as Batman moves through the room like a hurricane, and it _can't_ be Bruce, Bruce doesn’t fight like this; brutal, striking in places to cause the most damage, the most pain. “Not him!” he hears Batman bellow, and Jason lets his eyes slip closed again. If it’s not Bruce, if he’s going to come back to Joker, he might as well get some rest in first. 

+

He’s briefly aware of Batman bending over him, sliding a hand under his head. “Jason,” Bruce murmurs, and it’s him, it _has_ to be, only Bruce ever says his name like that, with the even mix of fondness and exasperation. 

He’s safe, leaning his head into the touch, relaxing completely, managing to get out, “You came for me, B,” before the world goes dark again. 

++

When Jason comes to, he’s in a bed, in a white room. Completely bare, sun streams in through the windows, and he wonders how long he’s been out if it’s day. There’s a bandage on his shoulder, around his ribs, an IV hooked up to his arm that he pulls out immediately. Things being put in his bloodstream while he’s not aware of them are usually bad news. 

He sits up, looking around for his pants, first of all. He remembers fighting, almost dying, which makes the breath catch in his chest, and Bruce coming to save him. Could’ve been a hallucination, though. He had a lot of those whenever Joker brought him close to death.

“Whoa, Little Wing. You might want to be careful there.” He spins to see Dick, leaning against the doorway to the room. Inwardly, he relaxes. Safe, then. Dick’s still wearing the bodysuit he has under his armor, looking a bit worse for wear. Or, he would, if he wasn’t Dick Grayson and better than mere mortals at all times. 

“What happened?” Dick steps further into the room, tossing a pair of sweatpants Jason’s way. His whole body aches, but he manages to catch them and put them on, watching Dick with suspicion all the while. 

“You got overwhelmed. Me and Bruce showed up just in time.” 

“You saved me?” When Dick nods, he snorts a laugh. “That’s a first.” 

The soft, wounded noise Dick makes has him wincing, about to apologize. “We thought you were dead, Jason. Bruce was…I’ve never seen him like that. I thought he was gonna kill those guys.” Jason examines his face, looking for a lie and finding none. The hopeful feeling in his chest is an annoyance, unwanted, but it’s still there.

“Uh. Thanks, I guess. I’m sorry.” Dick sweeps him into a hug, which hurts his shoulder, but at least this way he can pretend that his eyes are completely dry. 

+

Dick doesn’t want him to leave, saying something about visiting the Manor, seeing _Bruce_ , like Jason’s up for that. He manages to duck under Dick’s expressive, waving arms, retrieving his gear and making a quick exit. 

“I’ll see you later!” he calls over his shoulder, looking back, hoping he won’t see another hurt puppy expression on Dick’s face. He’s smiling, though, lifting a hand to wave goodbye. Jason smirks and closes the door behind himself.

+

It takes him about twenty minutes to walk home, the dufflebag with his gear that’s hefted over his shoulder making it hard to walk and the injuries aren’t helping, either. People on the street stare at his black eye, the blood that still crusts the side of his head. It’s not his. 

He picks bits of bone matter out of his hair as he takes the steps to their apartment, no sure whether he’s hoping Steph’s home, not sure whether he’s okay with her seeing him like this. If he’s lucky, he’s at least presentable. He’s exhausted, head throbbing, mostly thinking of Steph, how much he wants to get his hands on her. Safe. 

The door swings open at his touch, Steph standing there in leggings and a sweatshirt, hair in a loose braid over her shoulder. “Jason?” He takes a step forward, leans his whole weight against her as her arms wrap round his waist; she staggers but doesn’t fall.

He’s mumbling, too concussed and stupid to hold back, “Fuck, Steph, just lemme touch you, just lemme,” in a tumble of words. She’s soft, his hands slipping up the back of her shirt to find more skin, feeling the scars along her shoulder blades.

When he makes his way towards the couch she goes with him, onto his lap, thighs on either side of his. He lets out a breath into her hair, smelling vanilla, leather, her skin underneath, pushing his nose into the curve where neck meets shoulder. “Barb told me what happened,” she murmurs next to his ear, lips briefly touching the shell of it. “Are you okay?” 

“Gonna be,” he mutters, kissing her neck, her cheek, the side of her mouth. 

“You almost died again,” she reminds him, leaning back, her flat blue eyes holding his. 

He grins, used to it, laughs against her mouth. “Yeah, I’m aware. Don’t get lost in your head about it.” 

Frowning like she doesn’t know what he’s talking about, she picks at the blood along his hairline, making a face as it flakes onto her fingers. “You need a shower,” she says, moving away from a topic neither of them want to linger on. 

Jason chooses to squeeze at her hips instead, reveling in the way she squirms, kissing her again. “Only if you shower with me.” She rolls her eyes, muttering something about cheesiness, but doesn’t argue when he stands, just wraps her thighs round his waist and holds on.  
END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here's the end, folks! not sure what i'll be working on next, besides finishing up my ace hawkeye fics. if you read these, throw some fandoms/prompts my way and maybe something will spark my interest?? hope you enjoy!


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